


Balance's Threshold

by Ozma, Zahira



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Ascian, F/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 30,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zahira/pseuds/Zahira
Summary: 3.X; WoL-centric, eventual WoL/Elidibus.The Warrior of Light is plagued by dreams and memories that are not her own - until they become more than just dreams.  Deeper and deeper the Warrior of Light falls into madness, and only the most elusive Ascian has answers.





	1. Prologue: Aught but a Shard

**Author's Note:**

> This story covers the events of 3.X, though not everything will be present, nor will everything occur in _exactly the same manner._ One very small change has been made to 3.0 canon that is elaborated on in the prologue.
> 
> As this is expected to be such a long fiction, we've only tagged the necessities. There will be more characters and themes present.
> 
> Please, enjoy.

From the deepest abyss, _something_ pulls at your consciousness, overcoming sleep’s numbing depths. Through the fog, an interruption burns, but you refuse to heed its call, wishing only to return to endless stillness, deeper and deeper -

Stubbornly, the irritant persists. An itch, a prickle. You can barely muster the care to whimper, knowing slumber will overtake the irritation in time.

A tingle, one that might well be the burning numbness brought upon by pressure on a misplaced limb, calls at you next; surely an adjustment of position will bring relief.

Tried and true, the solution proves successful, granting you the embrace of comfort and softness. . .

Sudden sharpness tears you from sleep as surely as a dagger held at your back; instinctively prepared for battle and intimately aware of every muscle in your body, you swat erratically at the imagined attacker, only to find your gifted room in Fortemps Manor as bare as when sleep overtook you bells past. Your hand, separate entity as it may well be for all the control you have so near to panic, searches your skin. Expecting to discover nothing save dream’s delusion, when your fingers come upon something slim and curiously pointed along several edges, pressing into bare flesh, sleep’s irritation fades, replaced by dull prickles of curiosity. Your body might well be ready for action, but rational thought continues to be elusive; picking the foreign object from its place and holding it before your eyes, you blink rapidly, attempting to wake enough to comprehend its identity and its presence. Between your fingers rests a plain shard of naught but gleaming white, no more than an ilm or two in length, far too thick to be glass, and not delicate enough to be a crystal.

Belatedly you understand; a piece of the white auracite? It had seemed to shatter into impossibly tiny pieces, but 'tis not outside the realm of possibility that one landed on your clothing or lodged itself in a crease in your pack.

Its presence draws you back to that day, memories yet as vivid and vibrant as if it only happened the past bell; in the untold depths of an abandoned Allagan research facility, the Ascians awaited you, the endless defiant even as they met their end. You’d a single auracite and two potential targets; the choice was made without hesitation. From the beginning, one paragon shadowed your every step; mayhap you might not be the legend you are today without his meddling, but you could no longer suffer Lahabrea's deadly manipulations, not with Hydaelyn at stake.  Bested by an adventurer once barely worthy of challenging his weakest creations, what terror Lahabrea must have felt at being imprisoned and compressed - having his very essence shattered - and at the abhorrent revelation that even eternity has an end, one as agonizing and cataclysmic as any Rejoining to Hydaelyn. There are few worse fates for one who relentlessly pursues his purpose. 

You’d scarce had time to come to terms with the fact that the woman, overcome with rage and disbelieving screams, would retaliate before Thordan ended her as well.

The sliver’s gleam fades against your palm as sleep summons you - or was its glimmer the trick of a half-conscious mind from the first? It matters not. Setting the pale thing down on your bedside table you roll over, nuzzling into the stack of pillows nigh as large as you and drawing your blanket over your head, drowning yourself in warmth, determined to ignore the world for just a few more hours as the fury of the storm howls relentlessly against Ishgard’s cold stone walls. 

With the blizzard as your lullaby, you drift off into satisfying dark once again.

_Bzzzzzzz._

_Bzzzzzz._

With a barely stifled moan you push yourself up, the linkpearl’s chime more intrusive in your bed-fortress than it has any right to be.

Your whimpered greeting is petulant at its most flattering; Cid wisely responds with polite disregard, but being woken proves to be the least of your worries.

A goblin primal.

_Twelve curse them all._


	2. A Little Late

The river teases at its shores, its course raging wider and deeper than during your pilgrimage through the Forelands, consequence of hard, prolonged rains that birth new life upon weathered soils.

This journey takes longer than the last; your party travels more leisurely than you’re accustomed to, compensating for the adventuring inexperience of the Scions' newest companion: a lalafellin scholar, come to aid in the search for your lost comrade. The more relaxed pace permits the glow of reminiscence, allowing you the freedom to lose yourself in Dravania’s unique atmosphere.

Ancient trees, sparse but large and thick with tops that blot the sky itself, with faded scars marring their alien trunks, inevitably foster the wildest of fantasies - and given what the histories they’ve witnessed, any might be correct.  You once mused upon on their age with Ysayle and Estinien - both as lost to you as time is upon ageless boughs. Yet in this place where time itself stills, where ageless dragons make their home, new companions take their place; perhaps these bonds will grow to be even stronger than those previously shared.

Ever forward. As it must be.

You could certainly be forgiven for the thickening of your usual silence. Even Alphinaud seems more sullen than usual, an awkwardness not lost upon the others in your entourage, and they, too, eventually fall into equal silence.

The clash of steel and spell interrupts somber reminiscence, echoing across smoldering wasteland.  Your party needn’t even glance at one another; without question, you draw your weapons in unison and increase your pace towards Loth ast Gnath.  You can but hope that you’re not too late to prevent whatever troublesome encounter Thancred finds himself in _this_ time.

Would that the scene greeting you be so predictable.

Fearlessly facing down Ravana’s latest incarnation, five adventurers battle with expertise and coordination greater than many of the expeditions you’ve led; intimately aware of their allies’ abilities, they cover weaknesses and react with almost unnatural speed. Mystery upon mystery; though Ravana, stronger than ever, falls easily before them, who among the Ascians remains yet active, encouraging these continuing summons of ever-growing power? Whoever it is seems to be taking great pains to conceal such efforts from you.

Your wandering mind snaps back to the present when the strangers address you, bearing antagonistic sneers, immediately dispelling the notion that they might be allies in your fight against the primals.  Nay, ‘tis clear they bear some grudge, mocking your inadequacies; who dares?

All too familiar vertigo sends you reeling; a spiral of dizzying grey overtakes your consciousness, as if in response to your query.

In an all-too recognizable scene, they gather, five in all, in an aetherial plane. A weakened Ascian - _Mitron_ , they know as his name - faces their judgement.  So they are as you.

“This day we reclaim the reins of history! This day we rid ourselves of the Ascians forever!” Such innocence is nigh heartwarming; the man lacks understanding about the impermanence of his actions. They would certainly benefit from what you’ve learned of the Ascians and their ilk, should they allow it.

Their leader’s boasts are met only with Mitron’s Ascian-typical angry subversive manipulations. “Fools playing at heroes, the lot of you. Is this how you think to save your world?” His chastisements find no mark this day, for the mortals know the taste of victory; what use are insecurities when such a trying journey is mere moments from its final completion?

The battleaxe shines with an aetherial Blade of Light, much as your own weapon once did a lifetime ago, banishing the darkness.

Drowning in memory and aether alike, your vision swims in white as you struggle against the Echo’s grasp; as a storm might wash a path away, the pound your head prevents realignment of sense and consciousness, aether swirling around you like an endless void until slowly, ever so slowly, do distant forms take shape, outlines barely more than delusions of the dying under Southern Thanalan’s sun.

Rapid blinks do little to aid your recovery, stomach rolling at unfocused memories of adventurers whose battles echo yours. Even clutching their heads from the Echo’s disorienting onslaught, the strangers regroup quickly; less hindered than you are by the vision, their discomfort proves dangerously temporary and their demeanor quickly reverts to hostility.

Mayhap the difficulty is their doing? Had they thought to sever mind from flesh?

Your other senses prove even more dulled than your sight, all but a few words lost in the whine of half-nothingness: “. . . It's not her. Take the. . .” “. . .ever been wrong bef. . .”

Though voices are muddled in the deluge of aether, you recognize the clear ring of battle. Through heavy lids, light burns; the blurred forms of your companions, scattered across your vision by the strangers’ assault, does little to soothe budding panic, but even worry for them fades as the sun’s sear invades all sense, burning pound making concentration nigh impossible. You can but squeeze your eyes shut and silently plead. _Just let them be safe. . . let it end. Stop. . ._

How long you remain incapacitated amidst the broiling darkness you know not, but eventually, a hand falls lightly upon your shoulder, the gentle path guiding you back to reality.

Thank the Gods that your companions remain unharmed, the strange warriors and their even stranger Echo banished, even without your aid.  Though the pound in your head no longer renders you inert, your vision still swims - but through the murk you see your group’s newest addition; the warmth in your breast rises, a smile gracing your lips.  Your voice fails, throat as parched as if you’d been screaming, but Thancred doubtless appreciates the gesture as you force unsteady muscles to do your bidding.

Ever the scholars, Krile and Alphinaud rush to your side, confirming your condition.

“H-hey, are you alright?”

“What did they do to you?”

They’ve more important issues to fuss over, your gaze sweeping the stronghold; the strangers may yet remain.  “I’m fine.” You bluff with as much confidence as you can muster, regardless of their inevitable disbelief.

Thancred interrupts, postponing any potential disputes, relief at your wellness setting his demeanor somewhere in between a smirk and a beam. “It seems I’m late.” The strangers' absence must be his doing; you return the smile in kind.

Though clearly disbelieving, Krile reluctantly returns her attention to the business at hand. “It appears these ‘Warriors of Darkness’ took great offense at our friend here. What could have angered them so?”

Warriors of _Darkness_? Had you not just -

But you fear even attempting to recall the vision through memory, lest the pain in your head rouse itself once more.

“There are a great many things they could have seen.” Y’shtola’s vague statement promises Krile elaboration of your exploits at a later time.

“They...Mitron.”  A name, the only morsel of valuable information that pierces the haze.  Through your companions’ bafflement, ‘tis clear they’ve even less of an understanding of the word than you. 

“Well then.” Recognizing that they’ll only receive nonsensical, fragmented answers, Alphinaud blessedly interrupts further interrogation. “Let’s return to Ishgard, shall we?”

You dare not object; a prolonged rest sounds heavenly.


	3. By the Sea

Molten fire consumes the horizon; liquid gold birthed by the sun’s fall sets the sea ablaze, the very waters of life as much an arbiter of death, indistinguishable from the flames devouring the land. Tall grasses on the cliff flicker with the breeze, specks of ash and ember dancing at their tips, looking to catch hold and further their seed of destruction. Flames lick a lone stone house, long emptied, forgotten by its occupants, the thatch of its roof fueling the ever-increasing inferno.

The sky reddens to blood as the sun dips below the horizon, but Calamity keeps Hydaelyn Herself alight.

A terrifying scene, truly, one that should well send you into a panic; the land itself screams and wails, the dead’s aether rending the barriers 'twixt life and the beyond.  Yet in this destruction, there is only beauty; your arms raise to the sky, greeting the new era as if ‘tis as a cascade of refreshing water rather than the firey rains of destruction. Elation fills your core, breaths heavy as lungs fill with scorching air, begging to burst forth and shatter, just as the lick of flames might at last topple the house’s final supports.

You awaken with a start, sweat slicked and back arched; parted lips release rapid pants, the warm glow spreading all too familiar disorienting satisfaction.

_Gods._


	4. Toasts, Tidings, and Tempers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While we generally strive for a neutral WoL, there are certain events in this chapter that your WoL might react differently to, either with more or less emotion and restraint. This is intentional; there's a reason for this dissonance, the WoL is _supposed_ to be acting oddly.

An invisible weight bears heavily upon your breast, hampering your movement and impeding your steps as might mud in a swamp. You’re no stranger to exhaustion, but suffering its effects regardless of the welcoming safety House Fortemps provides is. . . frustrating. Despite Ishgard’s noble comforts, sleep remained elusive; all but the faintest impressions of intrusive dreams have receded below the surface of your consciousness, leaving in their wake only dull, heavy insomnia and naught to show for it. 

‘Tis more cramped than you remember; smooth, age-worn walls that were once a comfort now bring only distaste. The Forgotten Knight smells of the previous night’s crowd, a permanent admixture of musty, faintly bile-scented air and spilled drink, but where once was revelry remains only the light crackle of fire and clink of glasses, only the cold drizzle outside providing any relief from repetitious, orderly stagnation.

Tataru had been firm with her invitation: the Scions are to host a celebratory brunch welcoming Thancred back into the fold.  At the time, agreeing to the meet up had seemed proper, yet glad as you are to see Thancred, you fear the listless mannerisms you exude might give the wrong impression.

As is expected, you offer a polite smile and a toast to the future, refusing to allow your dourness to ruin the event for everyone else. ‘Tis hard to muster excitement for the royal eggs and warm wine; the eggs are mediocre at best, runny with slightly overcooked salmon and sauce that’s little more than melted butter - it’s never been one of Gibrillont’s stronger dishes - but, favorably, the wine proves successful at dulling the growing pound in your head.  Blessedly, it aids in muffling your companions’ bland chatter into a dim buzz, save the occasional laughter at Thancred’s amusing anecdotes about his time alone in the wild communing with bears and nutkin.

Mercifully, your companions seem to understand the inadequacy of your recovery and refrain from pulling you into conversation any more than is necessary.

Less mercifully, a boisterous Temple Knight who bursts through the Forgotten Knight’s entrance shows none of the same courtesy, the echo of his sollerets clattering down the stairs consuming your full awareness. Your fingers tense and curl, balling into tight fists under the table in effort to maintain a polite demeanor.

His nasal voice amplifies the pain in your already-pulsing head.  “Lady Lucia bids you come at once - the Lord Commander - he’s been wounded!”

Without awaiting your response, the knight clatters back up the stairs with even more noise than before. The Scions’ heavy footfall reveals their distress, rushing into action without a second thought. Always the mammet, naught but a tool of their bidding, even as your core breaks; seething anger bubbles within, demanding an outlet, and you are wont to oblige. You slap your wine glass off the table, sending the sour red liquid spilling hypnotically across the floor.

The others are halfway up the stairs when they realize you’ve remained in your chair, startled at the sudden total loss of decorum. They pause, staring, waiting, and silently condemning.

“I-I’m sure it was an accident.” Tataru jumps from her chair and searches for a rag behind the counter. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.  Just see to the Lord Commander.”

It was no accident, but the niggling shame at your childish manner is overshadowed by further annoyance. Y’shtola glares, Alphinaud gapes, Thancred averts his eyes, Tataru pretends it never happened, yet none of them allow you an emotion of your own.

If a weapon bearing a mask of passive silence is their true desire, they shall have it; you finally stand and stride past your friends, leading them to the Congregation as though naught had happened.

Lucia delivers her report in a brisk manner that barely conceals growing distress; her affection for the Lord Commander has always been clear to all save the man himself, and at times it clouds her judgement. Your fellow Scions seem equally upset, but you find yourself numbed to the worry, instead musing on an image of a dark alley, early morning drizzle washing blood from the cracks between the paving stones. . .

Really, ‘twas an inevitability.

“I beg your pardon?” You needn’t more than at glance at Lucia to recognize budding fury. Had you said that aloud? _Why?_ Now is hardly the time.

“I mean to say. . .he very nearly lost his life in the Vault. Others have _died_ to permit Aymeric his idealism.” You cannot but shake your head. “He is too trusting.”

“That _trust_ has benefited you and your organization greatly -”

“As if Ishgard didn't reap the rewards of that investment -”

“Ladies!” Thancred’s voice cuts through your bickering. “You mentioned arson. Perhaps we can continue this discussion after the city is doused? We must find the source of these attacks.”

“We should split up. Examine the sites of the fires, question witnesses, and identify anyone with potential knowledge.” As if the argument had never taken place, Alphinaud deliberates on a familiar plan of action.

“You two take the lower portion of the city.” Thancred gestures at Y’shtola and Alphinaud, then turns to you. “We’ll question anyone suspicious in the Pillars; you said one of the Fortemps sons is quite the gossip?”

The plan is agreeable; you nod and set off toward the Crozier, knowing full well where Emmanellain goes to be _seen_. For some time, Thancred allows you to keep your silence, but as soon as you’re out of earshot of the market goers, he begins his interrogation. “You seem careworn.”

“I didn't rest well.” Relief warms your breast; Thancred proves as understanding of your mood as ever. “And. . .we've been through a lot.”

“It sounded that way. Would that I was there to help.” Though barely more than a wisp, you fixate on Thancred’s regret, full attentions drawn to the darkest of his emotions. “Be certain to share some of your burden, hm?” He offers an empathetic smile. “After all, we've learned that unfortunate things happen when one of us runs himself ragged.”

His self-depreciation earns Thancred a returned smile and you continue on your way without further incident.

Sweet, unchanging Thancred. Still such insecurity resting beneath his air of confidence, ever working make amends for the myriad of wrongs weighing upon him.

Such devotion; it lightens your heavy heart.


	5. For Hate of the Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Oracle_ quote we're using is from the 2016 New Year's prophecy.

In the beginning, before myth and legend, before Light and Dark, there was but the sea.

In the beginning, before man and hist’ry, Light and Dark were divided, the seas sundered in fourteen.

To the seas She cast Her children, for fear of the Moon.

For hate of the Star, to the seas He cast His doom.

 

Urianger's slender scholar's hands trace the familiar words held within the old - _ancient_ , by the wear of its pages - tome selected for him by the Emissary. The Ascian must have known that Urianger had memorized Master Louisoix’s writings on _The Gerun Oracles_ when guiding him through the library’s depths, into which Urianger had not had the pleasure to set foot for nigh on two decades, for he sought only to make a singular point: of all the knowledge in all the pages on all the shelves in this building, _this_ tome bears the long-sought truth Emissary touts - a truth which Urianger already knows above all others.

Urianger had thought the tale a charming eccentricity of his master's, with its unique hypothesis on Hydaelyn's origins offering an explanation for the lands’ cycles of hope and sorrow. Yet ‘tis _here_ the Emissary guides him, among all the other pages, to emphasize the importance of _these_ apocryphal pages. . .before leaving Urianger, once again, at the side of one Her children from a different shore of that very sea, the conclusion foregone that they are to work together to set the star to rights. With no intentions of assisting the Ascians with their “ardor,” Urianger’s is a perilously duplicitous infiltration.

“Well? Do you not _care_?” The gruff hyur who calls himself Arbert snaps, returning Urianger’s attentions to unpleasant observations and future challenges.

“Thou art certain of this vision?” The implications are dire indeed, though with the stated goals of these “Warriors of Darkness,” it is hard to imagine the reason for their anger.

“Is your head as soft as your hands? Think we’d be where we are if we couldn’t work out a vision? You’re being manipulated.”

No matter Arbert's confidence, Urianger doubts. Such a thing should be impossible for the gifted, shielded as she is by the Mother.

Urianger sets the _Oracles_ down on one of few remaining sturdy lecterns, freeing a musky cloud of dust that descends upon the moth-eaten carpets in lazy, thoughtful eddies. Be it truth or delusion, this information must be withheld from the enemy for as long as possible. “Thine intent is to bring about Calamity, is it not? I shall endeavor to learn more. . .yet should thy report prove true, thou but gainest allies to serve thine ends.”

Arbert narrows his eyes in displeasure, but quickly relents. “As you say. Now… our _friend_ in white obviously left me here to convince you -” He describes Elidibus with a sneer, unable to bring himself to say his former enemy's name for all of his distaste. But rather than continue, Arbert’s gaze jerks over to a dark corner of the room, hand raising cautiously toward the haft of his weapon, straining his senses to detect potential intrusions. “Strange world you have. Your shadows cast shadow and your light doesn’t. We shall continue this discussion when our privacy is assured.”

Urianger keeps his peace as Arbert takes his leave, blank stare fixated far beyond idly tracing fingers that roam worn letters etched into the leather of the _Oracles_ ’ cover.

The revelations of the day are extensive, yet one commands his attentions over all others.

Urianger lingers as long as he dares, carefully removing a few select tomes required for the coming research.


	6. Enclosure

Through haze you see it, a malformed visage just beyond the edge of your vision; the dark figure, blurred by soup-like fog, observes from the distance, moving as if to greet you.

Instinctively, you approach the stranger, only to to be stilled before making even a single footfall, impeded as if by nothingness. With trembling fingers you test the barrier, yet all they meet is unending _fire_ \- an unseen doom, both frigid and blazing, that steals your very essence with its touch. A trail of opacity in your wake, you endure the blaze with brief, fluttery probes up the smooth obstruction. Up and up your search leads, past sharp angles to the flat roof, and down once more.

A prison; this abhorrent tool is to be your coffin.

No - _No!_

The looming figure steps closer, bowing its head to look down upon you like a caged beast. Pounding at the barrier with an enraged snarl, its burn proves a small deterrent in face of rising panic. The shadowy captor offers naught save silence, but the flow of water over your feet is as much answer as you need.

As if in response to your unspoken query, water begins its gentle lap at your ankles, splashing back and forth against the cage's walls with your every movement. You captor means to _drown_ you? Foolishness - they’ll find you’re not such easy prey.

Clear waters flood the prison more hastily by the moment; its climb to your knees sets defiance in your breast. You’ll not be defeated by mere walls; you pound and pound, the burn intolerable, yet still you stubbornly continue your endeavor. Even beyond your limitations, you struggle against perfect sides and sharp corners, searching for vulnerabilities.

No tool is infallible, you must needs -

Ever and ever higher, the water rises, apathetic to the plight of its prisoner. It laps against your thighs, the chance of escape dwindling with each passing moment. Your jaw clenches; this ends _now._

With all the force you can muster, you throw your weight against the sides, uncaring of the agony searing your flesh. Such pains are a temporary setback, naught more. Even as your body breaks, still you force against it, slamming repeatedly with what little strength remains. Blinding agony proves secondary to survival; again and again you push, blood-blackened water splashing into your lungs, ragged gagging emphasizing the burn of muscles as they tear against the cage.

No. _Impossible._

Laboring to even stand, black waters lap to your navel, breaths hoarse between broken coughs.

And still, it rises.

In fury you scream, harsh and frustrated, for little else remains within your power, broken as you are.

Up and up, the water flows, as constant as a chronometer’s tick. Up. Up. _Up_. Screams give way to rapid, panicked breaths as you press against the unyielding ceiling, futilely searching for freedom.  The burn of its touch is distant now, your body well beyond pain, yet it sears all the same,  skin peeling, giving way to raw muscle, bone all but melting into the prison itself.

Relegated to only ilms, your entire world closes as you thrash and desperately gasp for the last remnants of hot, stale air, buying naught but an instant to inspect the entirety of your flawless dark prison - there _must_ be a way, this is not how your duties end, you’ve so much left to _do_ -

Through panic-blackened vision, in the last vestiges of consciousness as burning lungs collapse, the captor’s visage fills you with cold clarity.

And she bears your face.

Thrown violently back to consciousness, gasps mingle with the choked sobs of regrets found only within imminent death. Blankets cling to your legs, restraining you just as the liquid had.  Shoving them off with panicked flails, desperate enough that you strike the headboard, it takes an effort worthy of Rhalgr Himself to hurl you free from your prison, spilling burning limbs onto the floor. Refusing to heed rationality, breath leaves your lungs almost as soon as it enters, panicked exhales lightening your head until what little light seeps through the cracks swirls in your remaining vision, illuminating walls as bare as those that confined you.

Restricted -

Enclosed -

 _Pain_ -

Imposing, cold stone looms over struggling, frail flesh. Ilm by ilm the light dances up their heights; ilm by ilm, they slide closer, bearing down, crushing your bones until naught - not even essence - remains.

Nay - not again. _Never_ again.

Throwing your weight at the door, it gives easily - far easier than your prison - sending you reeling. Scrambling up from the floor, guided more by memory than sight, you flee an enemy that exists only in dreams.


	7. An Imperfect Vessel

For all their importance throughout history, there are frustratingly few resources regarding those who bear Hydaelyn’s blessings and Urianger has used his every contact to scour them all.

In a hushed tone, Arbert had spoken of a vision - an Ascian’s memories, lurking deep within their champion of light. By all rights, such a thing should be an impossibility; translations of reports found in the Mhachi Ark have been slow progressing, but within the depths of long-forgotten texts are chapters discussing the Echo’s sufficient protection against voidsent possession, presumably similarly to how it shields from tempering. Briefly, Urianger had considered the possibility that temporary vulnerability, stemming from the Warrior’s loss of the Blessing of Light, may have provided an exploitable weakness for the Ascians, but other gifted members of their order possess the same protection against tempering without bearing Hydaelyn’s own protection.

And perhaps most importantly: each of the Paragons who challenged the Warrior of Light in battle had fallen. Who would be left to claim her body as his own?

Urianger had been full ready to dismiss the vision as a misinterpretation until his eyes had passed over a rumpled pile of books and effects, nigh untouched underneath the thinnest layer of dust, in his small library’s corner: Moenbryda’s unfinished documentation on auracite. One of these had been a collection of Garlean faerie tales in which the heroes of old harnessed a power within the stones, which they called auracite; the fallen child-Warrior, too, had made mention of stones bearing the same name playing a role in his world’s demise at his introduction. Should the auracite prove to be a sinister gift meant to undermine their efforts rather than an instrument of darkness’s downfall. . .

The matter warrants this last line of inquiry before being put to rest.

Arriving at the Waking Sands by night as requested, Unukalhai’s fragile frame lacks the typical imposing nature of those concealing themselves with robe and mask, but Urianger well knows the folly of underestimation. “A curious summons, Urianger.  Why such haste?”

Urianger once again mulls over carefully-chosen words. Deception requires he appear to trust the boy when near the others, but privately Urianger instead practices diligent caution; his every word may be reported to Unukalhai's master. “I require assistance in my research. Wouldst thou speak of thy star's fall?”

A stiff nod reveals Unukalhai’s anguish, yet if his desire is genuine, he is obligated to share his knowledge so that further tragedy might be avoided.

“When first we were introduced, one of thy words struck familiarity: auracite. We, too, have researched this stone’s use, and there do exist tales of heroes wielding power within them. I would hear of the role it played in thy home.”

So delayed is Unukalhai’s response that Urianger questions whether the boy heeds him at all.  “I shall tell you all I can, but. . . Urianger, you mustn’t be swayed by these stones. Their temptation is so insidious -” he shakes his head. “It must _not_ happen again.”

The severity settles cold in the pit of Urianger’s stomach as he urges the boy on with a nod.

“On my star, the Ascians operated much the same as they do here - teaching methods and offering encouragement to certain factions so that they might summon their gods as primals. Hydaelyn's chosen thought to halt the ever-increasing threat of repeated summonings by capturing the primals within auracite, rather than allowing the fiends’ essences to be freed for new rituals.”

Already Urianger's mind sets itself to categorizing this new information. “New incarnations were unable to take form whilst the old remained imprisoned?”

“Urianger. . .” Unukalhai's tone holds clear warning.

“My pardons. I do but hope for the day we might similarly cease the escalation of such foul rituals. Prithee, continue.”

“Understand that Hydaelyn’s influence over my star was far weaker than that of the other fragments.  Her crystals, Her blessings - they were not enough. So desperate were they to save their world, Her children began to wield the auracite in battle.” Wisps of longing regret tinge Unukalhai’s tale, memories bared heavily within his heart. “The vessels proved imperfect. The primals’ essences… infected them, set in motion a kind of corruption.”

“Corruption?” Anxiety claims Urianger, so alert that even the faintest hints of the desert night’s chill sends his stomach tumbling and his extremities tingling; Unukalhai but nods, seemingly too absorbed in his melancholy to notice the turmoil raging within Urianger. Silently cursing the boy for ending his tale at its most important juncture, Urianger nevertheless refrains from pressing, certain his interest in such specificity would be noted.

“With the fall of Hydaelyn’s chosen, the darkness took hold of my star in totality. The rest you know.” His tale ended, Unukalhai pauses, gaze fixed upon slow curls of candle smoke against sandstone; though his emotions are shielded beneath his mask, small fingers play at the hem of his sleeves, revealing well-hidden unease that matches Urianger’s own. “Urianger, what prompted this interest in auracite?”

Careful silence betrays nigh as much as withheld words, Urianger knows well, yet still his tongue refuses to form the sounds.

“You spoke of tales, but it cannot still be in use. . . Urianger?”

The pound of his heart hitches breath in his lungs; he dares not refuse a direct question, instead meting out just enough truth to sate the boy without betraying his cause for concern. “Our esteemed Warrior hath twice employed auracite in battle. In both cases, the stones were shattered beyond recovery, her aim to utterly destroy that which had been captured within.”

“Good; she has no need to harness their strength to supplement hers. Should aught but a shard survive to corrupt the individual who next claims it. . .” Unukalhai deflates, overcome with displeasure. “What could possess her to wield such a tool despite the might at her command?”

After brief, though inevitably noted, hesitation, Urianger relents; even should the Emissary learn of the Scions’ weapon, for the Ascians to guard against it should remain an impossibility. “'Tis the only way to bring end to an aetherial being otherwise eternal.”

Immediate understanding stuns Unukalhai into silence and he briefly retreats into his thoughts. “. . .I see.”

A fascinating revelation; had he not known they had found a way to end his master's kind? Unukalhai’s relationship with Elidibus is perhaps not as close as originally surmised, a sole, brief flutter of hope birthed from an otherwise dismal night. “I must needs put to paper the words thou hast shared with me this day. Shouldst thou recall aught else of relevance, full glad would I be to add to my research.”

“Of course. Good evening.”  He barely hears. The slow patter of tiny boots mimics the dread beat of Urianger’s heart; as much a shadow as the master he serves, a scrap of paper fluttering behind Unukalhai as he hastily passes remains the only evidence of his passage.

Heavy breaths billow Urianger’s cowl; overcome with unsteady paces and trembling fingers, returning full attentions to his writings is naught but an exercise in futility.

_Infection. Corruption. Should aught but a shard survive. . ._

Far from the final line of questioning before putting the matter to rest, the situation instead proves more dire still.


	8. Frostborne Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with all chapters from here out, there may times the WoL acts strangely or irritably. These are intentional.

Through silence you wander, aimlessly enduring the depths of Ishgard’s clear, frigid night, in futile hopes that suffusing fatigue eventually overcomes your body so that you might finally return to your chambers in peace. The hour grows late and even the sturdiest of Temple Knights warm themselves over small hearths, awaiting the change in shifts.

You are not nigh as lucky; so intrusive was your dream, intimately familiar yet just as agonizing as the first, that in your hasty, terrified scramble you failed to pull on any of the wool finery provided by House Fortemps, and on this night a primally deep chill sets into ancient stone, the embrace of cold’s tendrils overcoming exhaustion.

Returning for them now is impossible. They remain folded in that room, with _those_ binding walls, _that_ prison -

You shudder, breath clouding thickly in the air, clinging to lashes in a fine icy mist.

Of course it had only been a dream.  Of course. Yet upon your awakening it had been so real that breath escaped you; your flesh knew none of the bed’s comforts, only the remnants of confinement’s burn - its _pressure_ \- crushing -

Another deep breath, another billowy cloud. The chill stings your breast from within, but ‘tis a welcome, refreshing pain.  You live. You can breathe. An out of place laugh erupts from you, subsiding as suddenly as it arose.

There are no walls here; you are free. Another frigid breeze caresses you, reminding you of - of what? Of something. . .

At the edge of your hearing, light, quick footsteps crunch against snow, alerting you to intrusion, and memory fades back against tense awareness; straining to listen yet refraining from acknowledging the intrusion, you cannot but hope that the footsteps’ owner will pass you by, believing you lost in thought. Yet the fates are ever unfavorable; the stranger’s pace slows as they approach, seemingly as wary of you as you are of them.

You finally turn, lamenting the inevitable confrontation.

“Well! Can't say I expected to see you out for a walk.” Unfamiliar though you might yet be, the newcomer’s greeting is syrup-sweet and friendly; Krile totters toward you wearing a reassuring smile.

What is she _doing_ here? Your exhaustion is enough; there is no need for you to shoulder whatever burden has ripped sleep from her grasp as well. All the same, she receives a return smile, as is _expected_.

“Ah… I’ve interrupted you. My apologies.” The hurt look on the lalafell’s face reminds you of her gift; with such prenatural empathy, Krile must sense how unwelcome her intrusion is.

With no desire to indulge her self-pity, you instead feign ignorance of her disappointment, conversing as if she hadn’t spoken. “What brings you here?”

Krile immediately brightens, chattering about the troubles weighing upon her of late. Displaced from a destroyed homeland and thrown into the chaos of Eorzean life, the friend she had hoped to meet upon her arrival absent, Krile had been seeking someone new to confide in. Despite the disinterest she clearly detects from her listener, you’ve provided her the ideal opportunity.

“Indeed.”

Just what you’d hoped to avoid. On she goes; she’d recently heard some embellished tale of your victory over the self-proclaimed god-king of Ishgard and expresses her awe; she laments the conditions of the peasants of the Brume; she hopes you might find Minfilia soon; she isn’t sure she’s fitting in with the Scions.

“Nonsense. Y’shtola seems to enjoy your company well enough. . .” Saying nothing of the others. Particularly you.  Particularly now.

She’s amazed at the aether concentrations of this land; she wonders whether Sharlayan will ever take back the city that has since been claimed by Rowena and the goblins. . .

“Perhaps. They left an entire library here, after all.”

Time and again you idly agree, only half heeding her rambling. The breeze picks up, and you tighten your arms against your chest. There was something you had been trying to remember -  something in the cold. What was it. . .something from. . .Coerthas? No. . . There is a vivid sense of a cool hand on your cheek, but where, when? _Who_?

Blissful silence falls upon the night abruptly enough that the lack of incessant nattering draws you from your memories. “My pardons - I want for rest and my mind wandered. You were saying?”

Krile sways, holding her head in her hands and blinking furiously; perhaps she was struck by a stray pebble carried by the bracing winds. Eyes wide and unblinking, Krile stares at you, her expression calling to mind flighty antelopes in the Shroud, poised to dart away at first sight of a large boar or other predator. “I - I should - apologies.”  Krile all but flees, pushing past you and leaving with far more haste than is polite, particularly given your patience in entertaining her insecurities.

No matter. The eastern sky has already begun its slow fade from black to grey; perhaps an early-arriving merchant will have a selection of luxurious coats for your perusal.


	9. Fate's Shepherd

Such passion he bears for his purpose.

“Master.” In terse and desperate disobedience Unukalhai calls.  Auspicious are the fates that brought the boy to him; he takes to his role commendably, though he has yet to master its guise.

Or, mayhap, any of the proper discretion.

Yet those are lessons for another time; if the boy is so flustered that he lacks due diligence in his summoning, his concerns deserve Elidibus’ full attentions.

“Auracite is being employed on the Source.” Bereft of control, Unukalhai’s voice breaks; expected though it might be that the topic distresses him, panic serves no purpose.

“Calm yourself.  Tell me what you’ve learned.”  A steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder suffices for consolation, trembles subsiding into deep breaths.

“The Warrior of Light uses it as a tool to -”  Though brief, his hesitation is noted. “- to end Ascians.”

Such is the tenacity of man, a merciless ingenuity ever focused upon forging instruments of destruction.

Unable to contain himself, impassioned pleas overcome Unukalhai’s rationality. “Master! We must stop -”

Unukalhai remains a child in many ways; time will set him to rights, his patience yet to bloom. “How did you come upon this information?”

“Urianger’s summons; he asked me of the auracite.”

“You spoke of its properties with the scholar?” Then the Scions seek knowledge of their tool. If they wield auracite ignorant to its dangers, such fears may prove legitimate; balance’s threshold might well be crossed if the thirteenth’s corruption is repeated.

“I warned against its use.” He nods.

“Then there’s naught else for us to do.” His shoulders tense under Elidibus’ grasp, dissatisfaction settling upon his demeanor.  Even now the boy struggles with his emotions - yet such purity is why he is well suited for his role in the Light. The Scions cannot but trust his sincerity; none dare gainsay Unukalhai’s determination.

As they couldn’t Lahabrea’s.

That failure, too, cannot be repeated.  There are benefits to putting the heart at ease, assuaging any remaining doubts so that Unukalhai does not act on his own. “You’ve done well coming to me with this.  Fear not. If their course proves undesirable, we will act.” Elidibus smiles, small comfort that it might bring to the boy with nothing.  “It will not happen again.”

Corruption is a product of the False Gods - of aether incompatible with mortal essence - but the auracite would have been touched by his kind. The corruption might instead -

Such is previously unwritten; ever does fate twist, twining as it must throughout balance.  What a fascinating turn of events.

There is much to anticipate in these coming moons; if Elidibus might guide its growth. . .

Mayhap ‘tis not so terribly unfavorable.


	10. Darkness Clad in Steel

Through the distorted fog of darkness you step, emerging into the realm of unnatural lucidity.

‘Tis a familiar memory this time, rather than an unknown, eldritch horror, and you dare to hope; mayhap this night will pass less fretfully than the others. Yet even that thought bears ill tidings, for awareness that the dream is, in fact, a dream is new. 

Be it through dream’s or memory’s distortion you witness, once again, a scene long since seared into your mind: the complete devastation wrought by Ultima, the spell of incomprehensible power that warped the Praetorium into uninhabitable wasteland, a ring of flames marking the boundary of Hydaelyn’s shield.

Yet not all is as it should be.

Blindingly burning flames give off no heat; absent is the sweat that once slicked your frame after the ferocious struggle, absent is the smoke that once filled heavy breaths, absent is the roar of inferno’s blaze or the slow creak of the warmachine’s failing joints.

Be it dream or memory, there is but numbness, an all-enveloping shroud diminishing known sensations.

Before you, the towering Ultima Weapon looms,  broken and silent; drawn like vilekin to light, you approach, footsteps silent against the ruin. There had been no opportunity to examine Weapon before, your every encounter antagonistic, and tentatively, you reach out, stroking black steel with naught but your fingertips.  As if in response to unspoken query, beneath your hand flutters a biomechanical beat, emanating from deep within, as if it seeks to respond to your touch but is powerless to do so.

Stilled as it is, one might never know the ease with which it tore through its fearsome foes, nor comprehend the strength of a shield so powerful Hydaelyn Herself struggled to break it. Such beauty its dormant power holds.

So many plans, countless years of work - all gone into this glorious beast of destruction.

Of _salvation_.

. . .Salvation?

The intrusive thought takes you aback, but. . .it cannot be denied that all power may be used for good or ill - Weapon’s being no exception.

Nor yours.

 _A tool of the Gods_. An unashamed musing as equally intrusive as the last, for what are you but a tool of a greater power, kindred to the beast that pulses beneath your hand?

The fire closes around you, searing away remaining fear of the broken tool; in acceptance, there’s naught but serenity.

Beyond the dream’s lull, a crunch - no louder than a step, but in the unnatural silence it might well be a warship’s roar - interrupts your peace.

And still, you’ve no uncertainty in this place; Praetorium is host to your victory, you’ve power over any dreams here.

You turn to the source of the sound, devoid of hesitation.

In regality he composes himself, robes blowing in imperceptible winds; unsurprising though his arrival might be, for this is _your_ dream and he is naught but another memory inside it, you’d have done well to anticipate his presence - for it was his presence here, more than Gaius’ and Ultima’s, that made you the Warrior of Light in the eyes of Eorzea’s populace. Unwavering is his stillness, bearing feigned patience as his gaze roams; drawn ever taut, his last vestiges of control unravel when he finally meets your eyes.  Concealed though his features might be, the malice and confidence are clear in his demeanor, no different from any other time you encountered him; ever are his kind creatures of habit - probing, ever prying, for vulnerabilities so that they might spread their chaos - a predictability that has thus far proven accommodating.

But no darkness flows through him, no summoning heeds his call; not even _he_ can claim audacity to challenge you alone at the height of your power, you needn’t -

The force of unnatural weight slams you back into Weapon, an assault of unrelenting strength forcing air from your lungs in a pained snarl.

 _This is not how it was._ This is _your_ dream, you’ve control here.

Envisioning the victory you know is fated, you struggle to break invisible binds; no chains rub your wrists raw, no ropes bind your feet in effort to prevent kicking; nary even an immobilizing lance of darkness pierces your breast to steal your breath away.

Nay, your breaths come easily, ‘tis your voice that eludes you and the lethargic sap of invasive darkness seeping through your muscles that incapacitates you. An impossibly imposing wall of misty black aether clings to you like film, soaking into flesh and commanding your submission as virulently as you command its release.

Dread wells in your breast; as if darkness steals away the earlier lucidity, you cannot but question whether this is neither dream nor memory, but something else entirely.

His power - ‘tis _impossible._  Not even when he broke the barriers of his soul with his companion did he bear such indomitability.  It far surpasses that of the host in which he should reside during this memory - and you’ve sparred with Thancred enough to know such feats are far beyond his capabilities, even on his best days.

 _Thancred_. Nay, ‘tis not his face he bears, as he did when you previously challenged him  in this place. Even behind cowl and mask you recognize the difference in his lips and jaw; so, too, does his body differ, height and build lacking the familiarity of your Scion companion.

It matters little; his identity is clear regardless. That mask, those robes, frustrating your every effort from the beginning. . .

This time, he refines his macabre strategy, your imprisonment hauntingly reminiscent of nights past.

Shivers of frustration course your veins; struggle as you might, there’s no solace to be found in his unrelenting clutches; squirms avail you naught, only serving to deepen the wicked smirk growing on his lips.  With a single step he closes the distance between predator and prey, drawing his face so near to yours that wisps of breath displace stray hairs.  His lips move but form no words and in one panicked instant, the world stills, his hand leisurely roaming across the bare - _bare? Is that right?_ \-  skin of your neck.

Again you squirm, shivering in revulsion at the tendrils of darkness lapping at your limbs. Again, you prove the futility of resistance.

Nay, you’ll not submit, not when you’ve longed for the opportunity to free yourself from his meddling. A sentiment he clearly shares - absent is his typical onslaught of shadow and fire, the simple physical approach as effective as it is unfamiliar.

Encircling your neck, his hands cling and his fingers dig, as if seeking to impale you with claws that prove more than ornamental.

A force unbecoming of him, but ever has he done what is necessary.

Through dread, panic grows.  Something is different; absent is predictability, death’s attendant embodying only chaos. Futilely you squirm against him, harsh pants revealing your fear even when your features do not, your heart’s rapid beats emphasizing the pounding flutter of your pulse within his unyielding grasp. ‘Tis as if you move not at all; unnaturally strong, your kicks, your punches, your prying - naught affects him, your resistance akin to a pebble’s attempt a damming a maelstrom.

The edges of your sight blurring with each shallow breath, each beat of your heart further swirls what remains of your vision; red melts into brown, succumbing to the blackness that devours them wholly.  He knows the depths of your weakness and, with its progression, he strikes.

In a brief instant of desperation your basal senses return; the pressure of his elbow against your chest, the continual tightening of his grasp, preventing life-giving breath - you know them well, almost as well as the silken material of his cowl, and red - _so much red_ \-  so near that you feel the weight of his mask on your face - nay, _everything_ of him.

The ring of fire closes around you, building within your chest. No more panicked pants pass your lips - nary a peep forms from you at all; nay, all that interrupts blissful silence are his rapid, anticipatory breaths on your cheeks - a fitting final lullaby.

Deeper and deeper, darkness falls, numbing chill dousing immolating inferno; in struggle, there is only futility; in void, the release of ecstasy.

At the brink of nothingness, you smile.

Through naught but tenacity the pestilence persists, but by your hand the purge reaches its inevitable, pitiful, conclusion.

How much longer must you face such opposition? Trembling fingers tug pitifully against clawed gloves; fingernails that once split and bled from the sheer force of struggle now offer little more resistance than a newborn babe’s grasp.

Such pointless efforts; the rebellious attempt is rewarded only with a tightened grasp.

Beneath the impenetrable grip, life begins its fade; what was once an erratic, rapid pulse slows; instead of challenging you, arms flail weakly through the air before falling limply.  Despite the specter before you, your foe’s end was writ moons ago. It is long past time for this charade to conclude; no more than a push will bring an end to this remnant -

Light leaves tear-stung eyes, her face red with welling blood, her frail, slender neck crushing under your fingers -

How exquisite, this fated conclusion. How tender, this intimate mockery.

Fire blooms in your lungs, disrupting your satisfaction with such intensity that you almost loose your grip; ragged gasps do little to stymie growing agony - nor do they still victory’s bursting elation. With failure, anguish; with victory, satisfaction; euphoria clashes with despair, vying for supremacy over your focus.

In unrestrained chaos, the dream implodes, collapsing into roiling dark and throwing you back to your bed with violent gasps, so heavy and hard that dizzy blackness almost reclaims you. Tears’ wet trails mar your cheeks and you raise a hand to wipe them, only to be jolted to full awareness when you inadvertently stab a small cut into your cheek.

With hypnotized sluggishness, you bring your hand forward for examination. . . . _Gloves?_ Blood smears taint otherwise the pristine silver metal that makes up. . .claws? Every motion during your brief analysis draws greater attention to a soft, luxurious fabric fully enveloping your body, so light that it barely seems present at all. Even your feet bear unfamiliar boots that you’re unlike to fall into bed wearing.

_Oh gods, what is - get them off, get them off -_

Throwing the covers aside, you all but leap out of bed and frantically search for edges of fabric to tear away, yet bare skin and the thinnest trail of blood are all you find.


	11. A Mortal Folly

Strewn across the grass with more disarray than Idyllshire in its earliest moons of reconstruction, your pack blows limply in the teasing breeze, fully emptied of its contents. Once eagerly anticipated, your newly acquired equipment instead thoroughly sours your mood; the materia set aside for it seems to have been left in Ishgard, your glamour prisms are nowhere to be found, and in the process of hunting for them, _everything_ has tumbled free, spilling into rain-drenched grasses and thick muds. Instead of celebrating, there’s naught to do but hunt for the archaic bone tokens and valuable mechanical debris that formerly filled your sack amidst the rubble. Twelve help you if the food you’d packed is contaminated; the gil it will take to replace some of the ingredients. . .

‘Twould not be so bloody awful if you could see clearly, but fog and wetness blur the edge your vision after yet another exhausting night interrupted by terror.

A deep, self-pitying sigh resonates from your chest; lethargy emphasized by defeat drains the energy from your limbs as you drop unceremoniously to the ground, retrieving smaller items from amongst broken marble; the dull ache of stone stabbing into your knees and shins heralds future bruises, but you press on, regardless, as you ever do.

Over and over and over yet more, your hands roam, until mud seemingly clings to every ilm of clothes and flesh both. By the time the afternoon rains begin their fall, you’ve nigh given up; the clothing that fell from the pack when you were searching it, including the newest piece that cost you a wealth of tomestones, all need washing and repairing now. ‘Tis as if the gods themselves make mockery of you; exhaustion is not nigh enough to sate their humors - nay, you must needs continue to dance to their whims, no matter the filth they drag you through.

For a moment, you limply stare at the pile, intimately aware of growing, frustrated tears that you refuse to let loose.

Wallowing deeply in petty miseries, you fail to notice the stray passerby until she stoops over, as unperturbed by the mud and rain as a wavekin, helping collect your remaining belongings and organizing your pack; Y’shtola offers you a weak smile as she hands over a half dozen tiny, colorful bottles of sweet potions, some now worthless, having lost their caps, their contents emptied into the dirt.  “Are you well?”

You scoff; obviously not. Yet all traces of malice escape you, as muffled by the blank dullness of exhaustion as your half-broken whisper. “Naught goes as planned today.”

She nods thoughtfully, smile pulling up just one corner of her mouth as she continues her assistance. “We all have days such as those. I find the best remedy is a hot bath and a nap.”

The mere mention of sleep rouses a brief fit of vulnerability, stirring longing deeply enough within that it stings your eyes; weak, fumbling fingers lacking dexterity almost cause you to drop your items anew.  “I’m unable to rest.”

“All the more reason you must. No obligation is -” A stray, rebellious, tear breaks loose of its prison, barely visible in the misty rain, its sluggish trail down your cheek interrupting whatever wisdom Y’shtola imparts to soothe your worries, finally giving her pause. “- greater than that to yourself. . .Goodness, what troubles you so?”

You shake your head. How could you explain fully without revealing the depths of madness unto which you slip? “Dreams. Nightmares. Every night, without fail.”

“‘Tis only natural to find yourself plagued by such troubles after the traumas you have endured.” Y’shtola lapses into pensive silence at the thought, only daring to speak after minutes of silence. “After the incident at the Waking Sands, Yda and I were left alone to -” She hesitates, as if the memory nigh overcomes her once more. “. . . I dreamt of their blood for moons; doubtless she did as well. I only recovered after everyone was safe, and even then only with time.”

Her tales of woe are of little relevance; you gifted Y’shtola the time she took to mend herself, that she might mourn while others labored. Yet telling her so would be crass and you content yourself with dispelling her false equivalencies. “It’s never been to this extent before.” Idly you touch the small, lingering scab at your cheek, the sole confirmation that your most severe incident, necessary evidence that the dreams are more than simple fantasies; yet, should it be within her power to aid you, you hesitantly elaborate. “There are. . . other effects as well.”

After passing you a miraculously intact dessert, Y’shtola considers your tale.  “Perhaps a spell?  Might I investigate?”

Full glad that the opportunity presents itself, you nod in acquiescence, standing so that you might grant her easier access. She brushes off dirt-stained hands as best she can and steps forward, habitually closing her eyes, unnecessary  though the action might be. A bubble of painfully bright light forms between her fingers, setting upon your chest; flickery winds dance alongside water’s smooth cascades as Y’shtola begins her search for abnormalities, aether roaming as if through will of its own. 

Such examinations are standard procedure for any healer or chirurgeon, and yet, ‘tis all wrong; absent is the spell’s familiar, cooling soothe, in place of each gentle touch, tendrils of foreign aether dig harshly into your essence, probing away as if she lays your innards bare, rummaging through your organs while you yet draw breath. It takes all your willpower to restrain yourself from throwing Y’shtola off you; Gods it _burns_.

If the fates favor you, her spells simply scour you clean; surely all will be well after the invasive ailment passes. Such small hopes do little to stymie the trembles coursing your flesh or calm the building retch in your throat.

Only after an eternity does Y’shtola cease, her search complete, and with offered respite you all but collapse into her arms.  “There’s nothing; I’ve detected no lingering magicks or curses. Your aether has suffered some disruption, but ‘tis no small surprise given the symptoms you’ve described.” You’ve done well at hiding the suffering inflicted by her intrusion, it seems, if Y’shtola’s reassuring smile is to be believed.  “You are hale; if there is an ailment, ‘tis of the spirit.” 

She dismisses you as she might a child who demands attention with made-up hurts that might be healed by kisses.  You are _not_ well. If she cannot see that -

“Listen to me.” You nearly pull away in disgust at the patronizing touch on your arm; Y’shtola presumes to lead you to wisdom she believes only she can provide - as if you hadn’t thought your lack of rest could be helped by rest. “You _must_ set down your burdens and allow yourself time to make peace with all you’ve been through, as must we all.”

“ _What_ time? It will soon be dark. . .” A disorienting pang of déjà vu briefly assaults you, commanding you to remember the last time you spoke those words. “No one else cares to take upon themselves the many burdens I bear.”

“Peace. You know we do all we can.“ Her demeanor takes on a subtle edge. “There is plenty of risk and glory to share; you needn’t claim it all for yourself. The next adventure will wait for you and, if it does not, there are others who are just as eager to prove themselves or earn easy coin.” She pauses, mouth set in a judgemental, hard line. “You _will_ meet your end by way of a fatal mistake if you insist on this reckless course.”

Surely she daren’t believes you’re with the Scions solely for gil and glory, not after everything  -

Anger’s flame again flickers before it sputters and collapses in the face of exhaustion, leaving behind only cold, numb clarity. “Very well. The next time I am called upon to slay a strengthened primal, I shall contact you to do so instead, yes? Or when I am asked to investigate a void-infested airship, solve a beast tribe’s internal conflicts, help train the grand companies, and explore an abandoned ruin at the behest of some mortal in over their head, wanting for a rescue. You are just as _capable_ of meeting _all_ of these demands, are you?”

“‘ _Mortal_?’ Do you truly believe yourself beyond error?” ‘Tis unlike Y’shtola to bear such open hostility in her reproach, neither is she like to spontaneously change the subject; her anger must be seated deeply indeed. Yet scour as you might, memories of what was said in rage’s depths elude you, as words are wont to do when their speaker suffers exhaustion.

Pregnant silence only becomes heavier at Y’shtola’s unwavering glare, further condemning you to guilt by the moment; only when her impatience wells to its head, unable to be contained any longer, does she turn, dismissing you with a flip of her hand as she walks away. “Mayhap you should visit an Alchemist; they might recommend a potion to cure such delusions.”

Surely she misheard; even blinded by anger, you _couldn’t_ have said anything to imply such arrogance. . .could you?

As if emphasized by their journey through deep canyons, whispery laughter from goblin and man alike dances through Idyllshire’s lonely winds. Even soaked as you are, you barely feel the rain.

Y’shtola had hoped to bring solace and comfort, but if the newfound pounding of your head proves anything, ‘tis that you would have been better left alone. Solitude and silence as your sole desires, you hasten to gather your last remaining belongings so that you might find a dark room away from the bustle of this obnoxiously burgeoning frontier town.

And while her suggestion had been spat out in anger with an insinuation that you want for sanity, perhaps an alchemist’s mixture may be in order - one that bypasses dreams would surely be of use.


	12. Succor Midst Sorrow

Despite the cling of a cold sweat, you pull the covers up and rest your aching head back into the pillow, your heart’s shallow, rapid beats warning you of dangers to come.

The clarity to reject the incoming onslaught proves elusive and you instead choose endurance; holding in the deep inhales that fill your lungs, you attempt to push fear aside, like you might you might in anticipation of coming battle: _They are naught but dreams. They cannot hurt you._ Slowly, calmly, the breath leaves you, commanding the tension to leave with it. It _must_. You’ll not allow the nightmares to become self-fulfilling prophecies.

Several repetitions see your heart calmed enough to embrace the smothering warmth of your blankets. As haze billows over your consciousness and you drift more deeply down into your luxurious mattress, fantasies frolic and dance of their own accord; no single memory remains in your awareness long enough to grasp, you can but watch them pass, vigilant but passive as the shadows slowly overtake you.

The buttery scent of the baked fish served at the Forgotten Knight tonight -

The stone walls of that very building -

Patterns of light cast onto the stone walls of the Vault -

The glitter of a shattered crystal spread across the sky -

Overturned crates of crystals half-buried in the desert sands -

A candle in the Waking Sands -

Now blown out, armor clatters behind you -

The room plunged into darkness -

An impossibly dark ruin.

Meandering steps take you through familiar corridors. Only the barest hints of light exist in this place, fragile rays incapable of permeating deeply enough to illuminate the passage; 'tis of no matter, they are ever unneeded by any occupants, the path as known to you as your very breaths. Passing an unseen column that seems to reach the stars themselves, you reach out, reveling in its flawlessly smooth surface; no sound mars the silence - no breeze, no chatter, no footsteps save your own, ‘tis but an empty plane of naught but peace and warmth.

How you’ve missed this place.

Steady, deliberate paces carry you into a favored chamber off the main hall. Plans were made here, successful and not; discussions, debates, decisions, they'll all soon begin anew. You need but more time - more control.

This is far from the first time moderation has been necessary, but it may prove the most demanding - and such challenges certainly leave you with little patience to spare for _this_ absurdity.

Under the guise of reminiscence, you drift into a near corner of the room, out of view from the corridor. You’ve been under watch nigh since your arrival. You’ve no intention of indulging his nonsense; if _he_ wishes to observe, he shall enter and reveal himself.

He does not leave you waiting overlong.

White cowl all but gleaming in the faintest light, Elidibus steps just over the chamber's threshold.

He knows your strategy, just as you know his game. Elidibus stills without turning, expecting a coming break in silence; you’re not of mind to indulge him, not this night. Wait he does, ever cautious, but even Elidibus has his limits and, tightly bound as they are, his restraints are oft shorter with you. It's not long before he succumbs to rare impatience: “You live.”

“Of course.”

At the sound of your voice, he moves to meet you face to face; a careful, calm exterior belies a turbulent mix of emotions beneath. Caution. Hope. Irritation. Exuberance. Hesitation tempers his reaction to a whispered musing. “How fortuitous.”

“Fortune had naught to do with it.” Only here, of all places, would you admit such folly. Every misfortune that could befall you did so, rendering you incapable of leaving even this limited vessel.

Elidibus might take from that as he will, ever evasively trodding his own path, but you acted only out of necessity - necessity that he refused to accept.

In judgement, does Elidibus ponder; absent of unwavering certainty, when he last displayed such uncharacteristic hesitation Nabriales had met his end.

So it comes as no surprise that he seeks to confirm your existence; as much of the Source as you, Elidibus should well be indistinguishable from yourself, and yet -

What should rightly be a reunion of freely flowing essence is instead invasive, once one now invariably bound unto two; as Hydaelyn once broke the precepts and severed Him from His dominion, so too do Her barriers sever His servants.

Unlike ever before, Elidibus’ remains a recognizable touch, naught more.

“I see.” ‘Tis clear that time will not set wrongs to rights, only Rejoining might and - Elidibus interrupts your musing. “Why have you returned, when your role in the north remains unfinished?”

A fool question, one Elidibus surely knows the answer to. You were -

Stopped short, the solution, buried deeply within disjointed memories, refuses to heed your call.  You _should_ have remained north, so why -?

No matter how brief your hesitation, it is noted.

“Return whence you came. You’re yet incomplete, ‘twould avail you to put aside your duties and rest.” Lingering though doubt might be, Elidibus bears pertinent wisdom.

To unspoken command, the ruin responds in your place, the world swirling about you at Elidibus’ behest; cling as you may in attempt to remain, you might well grasp the tides themselves and, try as you might, familiar, cold stone is swallowed by equally familiar shadows before fading to serene, unbroken darkness.


	13. Whispers of Dread; Lies of White

“No!”

As startling as it is uncharacteristic for the soft-spoken scholar, Krile’s abrupt denial is enough that each of your three companions turn to face her in disbelief - you perhaps the most so. What great warrior is Krile, that she would so vehemently turn away such generous offers of aid? “Pardon me?”

“I only mean - I don’t think that’s wise . . .” As she looks upon you, discomfort emanates from her demeanor; it’s not long before she turns away entirely, attentions focusing on Thancred as she wordlessly requests he elaborate in her stead.

How strangely unlike your last meeting -  the fearful respect your reputation oft invokes has never previously extended to her.

Thancred’s gaze wanders to you, seemingly bemused at Krile’s reticence. “We had planned to infiltrate the castrum alone. I’ve a proven knack for subterfuge and I am confident. . .” Further plans and explanations fade to the background, dominated by your musings. Is Thancred’s confidence true, or is it merely overeagerness in attempt to make amends for his absence?

No matter which it proves, their rejection leaves you consciously withholding an envious glower. How you yearn to witness the site of Ultima’s last stand once more - to see what yet remains of the devastated castrum.  Had the Garleans managed to rebuild, or had Weapon’s magicks rendered it irreclaimable?

Even simply envisioning the smoldering field invokes a pleasant echo of the high of battle, of truly unleashing -

Alphinaud tactlessly breaks admiration’s reverie by calling your name. “Might I impose upon you to meet them at the Lominsan docks?”

 _Impose, indeed._ Ever do you play the errand girl. Any other sun of late and you might have bristled in indignation, but a full night’s rest leaves your mood much improved, and you nod, dutifully agreeing to fetch the straggling Scions whilst Alphinaud and Tataru see the Rising Stones prepared to become a home once again.

Meeting adjourned, Tataru and Alphinaud quickly away, off to their business in Mor Dhona; Krile shuffles, eager for pursuit and yet unwilling to meet your gaze. Thancred, however, signals for your attention, beckoning you closer for a private conversation. “I’ve a feeling that with F’lhaminn’s return, the Stones will be home once more. Ere we leave Ishgard, will you apologize to Gibrillont?”

At that, it is your turn for bemusement. “Apologize? For what?”

His forgiving, if conspiratorial smirk, does naught to reassure you. “Come. No one would argue that brute didn’t deserve to be knocked on his behind, but the damaged furnishings. . .”

You tilt your head, hoping to make clear your deepening confusion and, should he fail to elaborate soon, your growing irritation.

“You. . .” Thancred squints appraisingly. “Were you lost that deeply in your cups?  You flattened the debaucher so quickly that no one saw what happened. I thought for certain you were of clear mind. I suppose ‘tis best our flirting went nowhere of consequence, then. . .”

Frustration finally overtakes the warm glow that had been radiating within since your awakening, escaping as an exasperated sigh. “I really have no idea what you could be talking about.”

“Last night.” At last recognizing the severity of your denial, all traces of knowing conspiracy and smirking congratulations at your drunken prowess disappear into concern. “You came to the Forgotten Knight, a patron made an overly forward attempt to lay hands on you, and you taught him a lesson. He went head over heels into a table, which broke it and a few chairs besides.”

“No, I -” Your mind races and your veins turn to wildfire as you desperately search for the fragments of shattered memories that stubbornly elude your grasp.

“What _do_ you remember about last night?”

The memory shimmers just beyond your grasp, distorted as a silt-laden riverbed; but no matter the fog, some images and impressions are borne so deeply that they remain easily recognizable. Darkness. Regret. Hesitation. _Elidibus._ “I….”

 _What is happening to me?_ You slept, dreamt of an Ascian, and awoke to tales of misadventures you’ve no recollection of.

This is serious, more than you once thought possible. The others should know; if anyone could understand this premonition borne of growing dread, it would be Thancred.

Yet Y’shtola had examined you only suns ago - surely she would have found a problem of this nature had one existed - and belittled your concerns in the process, emphasizing to you the value of keeping such flights of fancy to yourself. And if anyone would overreact to such baseless worry, it would be Thancred. Having lost so much, he’ll not see it happen again.

“I. . . may have had one too many mugs of cider with Count Edmont before retiring. I remember falling into bed and after that. . . I’m not certain I even dressed down for sleep.”

How easily you forge your deceptions.

Your heart sinks with immediate regret as Krile finally succeeds in pulling Thancred away, his quizzically furrowed glance serving only to salt the wound. You should have told him. The healing remnant of _that_ wound on your cheek is proof enough your ills are more than fantasy.

Some part of you that falters between reality and delusion _understands_. This time was different, the Emissary’s emergence at the center of change. An alluring siren of truth, the faded shadows of dreams hold answers just beyond your grasp, their key naught but teasing whispers cloaked in white.


	14. Shores of the Aetherial Sea

Adrift on a silent sea of shimmering blue, guided by a force so insurmountable that it overcomes individuality with ease, there’s naught to do but await the looming mothercrystal’s acknowledgement as you swirl closer and closer, falling deeper and deeper into Her shadow. Not having summoned you Herself, there is chance that your presence in the sea is unexpected.

Mortal concepts are meaningless once ascended to the higher plane;  a bell, a sun, a moon - how long She leaves you drifting, you know not, but ‘tis an uneventful journey, with no companions save growing anxiety and anticipation. Nearer and nearer you approach, far closer than you’ve ever been permitted, until you are nigh able to touch Her shimmering majesty. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach out - but your fingers caress only empty sea, Hydaelyn forever outside mortal grasp. Elusive though She remains, Hydaelyn responds to your touch; energy courses your body, the familiar empowering revitalization that flows through your crystals of light wells in your breast and out your fingertips against your will, seeping from your flesh, siphoned from your essence as if fed upon. 

Only once empowered after returning what is rightly Hers can She properly acknowledge you.  “Hear. . .Feel. . .Think. . .”

Hydaelyn. The Goddess so lofty She believes you need to be reminded of your own senses.

Such uncharacteristic bitterness does not become of you, but it bleeds nonetheless as you remain unable to shake away gnawing doubts.

At last the sea stills at your feet, as if your very presence is a disruptive anomaly; it might well be.  An endless cascade parts for She alone, at its base, a conglomeration of glowing aether, stray rays of light bursting from its core, exalting in newfound freedom.  Clean and clear, the light solidifies into a humanoid, at first lacking detail, no different from pristine glass, but quickly gains color, stained like crystalline windows, before at last smoothing into unnaturally flawless flesh bathed in a sourceless glow.

Nary a soul would believe this alien to be spoken, no matter how similar her appearance. Up and up your eyes roam, dread welling in your breast as you meet the gaze of a strikingly familiar woman; cold, distant, and devoid of all softness she once held, Minfilia floats down to your side.

She speaks, each word an echoing, delicate chime more than a true voice. Unwavering and flat, the stranger explains her appearance - her very existence - yet you hear little of it.  So foreign and intrusive are Minfilia’s changes that you’re unable to heed aught else; her hair inexplicably grown and styled, her aether-soaked eyes, lifeless and disparate with her former self, even the immodest dress of a style unlike any you’ve yet witnessed -

“There, adrift and alone, Her voice silent once more, I prayed. . . For those we have lost. For those we can yet save. To Her I would make an offering. . .”

And thus Hydaelyn summoned her most devout servant into the aetherial sea and provided no escape, using her only as kindling to fuel Her continued existence. Now She manifests, naught more than a lifeless doll before you, and speaks through its form, wearing a recognizable face to earn your trust after moons of silence.

A familiar tale, one you’ve previously known only to be borne of darkness.

All that remains of the Minfilia you knew is an empty shell, as lifelike as the animated puppets guarding the Sharlayan structure you traversed to gain entrance to the sea.

“Unto thee we bequeath the most precious of gifts: the truth which lieth at the heart of this world.”

A gift so precious - yet so rarely given. Only now that your life is wholly defined by Her does Hydaelyn deign whisper Her truths. With Minfilia consumed, could it be that She seeks to ingratiate Herself to a new most devout servant, that you might willingly offer yourself should the need arise?

“But the Darkness coveted power, and the balance was broken. Thus was I forced to banish Him unto the distant heavens, to forever remain apart.”

She claims to gift the truth yet leaves out any hint of the conflict’s genesis; are you expected to accept such knowledge unquestioningly?

“In sundering the star did we cry out, and the barriers 'twixt planes chance to falter. Across ten and three were we then divided. Reflections of the Source, each possessed of a shard.”

Everything shattered, broken. Thirteen worlds that should never have been.

Untenable. Even after Rejoining spreads Her half as thin as She was at creation’s start, Hydaelyn remains so weak that She is largely condemned to the same silence as Zodiark.

“For His restoration, for His resurrection, His servants labor without cease. They seek to tear down the barriers which surround the Source.”

The Source, _our_ world, protected by its barriers, while thirteen others are left to fend for themselves. Copies. Afterthoughts. Accidents. Fragments full of life, yet destined only to shatter; She suffers, but knows no solutions to stall a collapse of which She is the cause. _That_ is Her “precious gift:” a truth of cyclic devastation She recounts only to Her chosen Warrior.

“The Ascians cannot be suffered to continue. This. . .this is my final. . .” Minfilia’s form shimmers, lances of light piercing through innumerable cracks forming in her flesh, and doubles over, the puppet’s strings all but severed. “The crystal's power is all but spent. With what remains, I will return you to the shore of the aetherial sea. Blessed child, go forth and seek. . .seek. . .”

And with that, Minfilia shatters, stolen image as untenable as the unintended worlds.

The looming mothercrystal falls silent once more, seemingly shrinking as your soul returns to infinitely distant shores. Summoned toward a form you know intimately as your own, an anchor that keeps you whole in a stream that would easily shred your very soul, there is a disorienting intimate awareness of _separateness_. The woman on the shore massaging her temples is as a shell; _you_ are more. _Something_ lingers outside your awareness, an understanding, lost almost as soon as you’re able to acknowledge it, leaving you solidly bound within flesh once more.

If there’s emptiness in the revelation, you’ve no time to consider it.  There is naught to do now but trek back through the tower to deliver news of Minfilia's status to inevitably disappointed friends.

 

\----

 

“She - she's not coming back, is she?” The unpleasant conversation finally concluded, Alphinaud's pain is borne deeply in his demeanor as he silently pleads for illusions of comfort. You’ve naught to offer; you’ve none even for yourself.  There is one who needs your attentions far more; wordlessly, you push past Alphinaud and through the tunnel that serves as the exit from the cavern and return to the humidity of the Hinterlands.

Night fell while you explored the Sharlayan ruin and aetherial sea and your eyes are yet to adjust; Wood planks grooved with age, deceptively strong owing to the wards woven into them, give way to your shove at the door.

Though Thancred is not visible directly from the entrance, he cannot have gone far. He seeks the silence of solitude, but if there is any time he needs companionship in his vulnerability, ‘tis now.  “Thancred?” Only the occasional croak of a frog returns your query. “I won’t leave you to be alone with this.”

A reluctant rustle follows a long pause and hesitantly Thancred emerges into your periphery vision, requiring you suppress a small smile at his uncharacteristic meekness. At his strained blank stare, your breast churns, immediately cooling the blooming warmth as you approach, the controlled patter of footfall uncomfortably breaking the silence before words can. “Thancred, I’m sorry.”

Drained of his little remaining energy, Thancred’s shoulders drop and his eyes fall to the water, unable to look upon you. “I left her with you. Why did you let her go?” Though pained, Thancred’s low tone lacks true accusation.

“There was no stopping her. You know Minfilia did everything she could for Hydaelyn, even when asked for her very life.” The answer satisfies only so far as silence and Thancred quickly slips back into reticence.

Impulse drives you to step forward and grasp Thancred's hand. He does not return your grip with any strength, but nor does he swat you away. A deliberate squeeze prompts a half-hearted, gentle response in kind. “It isn't fair.” He shifts uncomfortably at the confident ring of your voice, straining not to fall apart before you; ever does Thancred feel the need to show strength, no matter how reasonable his weakness. Yet even recognizing his discomfort, whispers tumble from your lips against your better judgement. “It isn't fair, she devoted her life and so life was demanded of her in turn.  Minfilia deserved better.”

The words resonate with his pain and Thancred closes his eyes, gaze downturned as if seeking escape from unspoken promises -  but not your company. Aye, he wants - nay, _needs_ \- you at his side; you recall mention of flirting some brief time ago and before you comprehend your actions, your hand roams up to his cheek, turning his face to so that he might indulge your fervent whispers. “Thancred, what if we could put her back together?” The quizzical knot forming in his brow promises success and urges you to continue. “Mayhap we could pull her from the lifestream as we did Y’shtola?” So close now, the heat from his body warms you as you stroke sun-worn skin and the stubble covering his jaw; your eyes occasionally dart to his lips suggestively, and his follow suit nigh on instinct. “There must be a way. . .we could put her back together. . .we could put _everything_ back together, everything She's ever broken. . .”

Abruptly, pain shoots through your arm up to your shoulder; lighting-quick, Thancred  forcibly removes your hand, twisting it at the wrist, intensely searching your eyes as if for. . . something. Anger rises like bile, but you swallow it down as you hold his gaze, hoping welling disgust at his rejection is not as evident on your features as it is on your tongue. Tension borne so deeply that the echoing croak of frogsongs and irritating hum of vilekin swell as if to fill the uncomfortable lapse; harsh breaths mingle with Thancred’s for what seems to be a bell until finally he relents, but his irritable growl reveals dissatisfaction with his search. “What are you saying? _Remove_ her? You speak the impossible.”

“And when have we been discouraged by impossibilities?” Hushed, soothing, and gentle despite your compromised position and the pain you permit him to hold over you, your characteristic unfaltering confidence gives Thancred pause. “Everything would be as it once was.”

As abruptly as he seized it, Thancred releases your hand with a deep breath, stepping away so that he might seek answers within the bog.

‘Tis not long before he reaches his conclusion, unspoken condemnation of your proposed plan barely audible: “Ishgard changed you.” You await elaboration, but none comes. “Mayhap Matoya was right in asking us to refocus our purpose. We must each determine what yet drives us.”

“Thancred, we need not simply accept -”

“You should do the same.” With finality, Thancred turns from you and closes his eyes; there’s no more to discuss.  Unaccustomed to such blatant dismissal, you stiffen and clench your jaw. Without even a second glance, you stride off into the night toward Idyllshire, rejection’s sting proving a far deeper wound than any beast’s assault.

Your purpose?

_Hmph._

Your purpose has been to serve Hydaelyn nigh since the moment you began your Eorzean adventuring career, serving a Goddess that knows naught about Her children. She dared dangle a puppet in the form of a former friend before you as if ‘twould invoke a feeling other than revulsion and lamented in Her one-sided tale a situation as impossible to maintain as drinking from a shattered cup held together only by elderly, trembling fingers.

Naught but a cog in an endless cycle. A warrior that mends the seams of the stars themselves.

Or so it should be.

Yet here you remain, instead snuffing Ishgard’s trivial flames while a bonfire grows in the distance.

With each life lost to war, slowly, ever so slowly, does the ephemeral balance shift; how long until Her barriers rend, redress an impossibility?

Such is the futility of your _purpose._

There must be another way.


	15. Waking Dreams

All is black.

In testament to the late bell, were anyone else astir, candlelight from the main hall would dance through the crack under the door and cast faint, flickery outlines about this small room, but at this hour, all is black.

Heavy silence is broken only by your slow, steady breaths, consciously tamed into something mimicking sleep in an effort to reach your goal. Yet no matter how wholly you focus on rest, racing thoughts twist your innards and keep sleep elusive; the day’s dire revelations have left lasting wounds.

The Scions were rightly devastated by Minfilia’s plight: Alphinaud’s loss of all his cherished composure, Krile’s stunned silence, and Thancred’s sullen guilt; of all your comrades, Y'shtola's distress guides the deepest contemplation. Her grief warped into anger and determination - determination to end the conflict, that Minfilia’s sacrifice need not be in vain, and to deliver a world purged of darkness to Hydaelyn.

Your reaction had been one of anger, too - anger so great it surprised even you; it permeated so deeply that, even now, your stomach turns in revulsion.

_Disgusting._

And you’re little different from the master you serve. The gifts and protection you have been given to keep Hydaelyn’s peace - She would use them as tools to shatter everything and everyone if She deemed it necessary. She already has.

Irrational, seething rage again stirs in your breast, but is quickly cooled, as if doused in a chill spring on a hot summer day.  Erratic breaths tamed, tension you were unaware of, despite many attempts to consciously relax, at last releases.  The sudden arrival of serene darkness is as welcome as it confusing, so thorough it might well have been a spell.

Such nostalgic stillness.  You pause, straining to listen.

You lie still, _thinking_ at the black, _feeling_ at the black, immersing yourself as though it might absurdly respond to your bewildered state. Against all expectation and logic it _does_ ; gentle, foreign amusement washes over you and you sit up from your bed, strangely at peace with the intrusive presence. A faded memory rises to the surface; just recently you dreamt of meeting _him_ and here he is again, watching you - nay, studying you?

Neither fate nor chance adequately explains his presence.

Nor does it explain how easily you recognize him.

Elidibus holds his silence, ascertaining he’s not perceived as a threat, even when his appearance is an inevitable prelude to antagonism.  His is a contradictory presence; Emissary is more than a title - it’s his very existence, antithetical to yours as a warrior. ‘Tis a soothing conundrum guiltily enjoyable in its familiarity.

You cannot but respect his boldness.  When he last approached the Scions he was greeted with hostility; ‘tis misguided for him to believe you’d easily accept his presence on a second visit.  And you know well that if you were to meet Elidibus on equal terms, expecting answers is naught but a fool, idealistic notion. Instead he appears while you're troubled and frail, as if to offer his hand in guidance.

Mysterious though his purpose might be, the calming weight of continued darkness weaves confidence over hesitance and vulnerability and at last you indulge in the briefest of hope.  At the very least, you must know whether his seeming generosity is simply imagination run rampant. “Why are you here?”

What can he possibly want from the Warrior of Light that requires discussion with words in place of blades?

The shade is silent for a time lengthy enough to make you question if he was ever present at all, but finally, cautiously, his deep voice murmurs from mere fulms away: “You’ve forgotten.”

You draw breath sharply; with simple, clear accusation, Elidibus cuts to the heart of your dread. Fears previously shoved aside for duty’s sake invade like the scent of yesterday’s rotting meat, pervasive, demanding you reap his knowledge. Bearing a tone of stoic command that you hope conceals growing weakness, you summon the frail remains of fortitude in expectation of the worst. “What have you done to me?”

That he comes _now_ is much more than coincidence - yet you don’t wish him to leave, not when answers are within your grasp.

“Your condition is of your own making.”

‘Tis easy to ignore the dismissive amusement at your defensiveness when his admission births more relief than anxiety. “You mean I’m not. . .” You’re hesitant to even complete the thought at all.  Changes in behavior, lapses in memory, thoughts that are not your own - Thancred’s unspoken suspicions are legitimate.  Cool relief floods your veins for naught more than an instant; Elidibus' vague, worrisome confirmation that there _is_ a condition plaguing you smothers any rising comfort. Though he denies involvement, the satisfaction now permeating the room is unmistakable and directly in contradiction to his earlier serenity.

Elidibus keeps his peace, awaiting your pleasure.

Doubt demands inhibition; if Elidibus is familiar with your. . .condition. . .what reason does he have to aid his foe?  “What do you know?” Even in the darkness ‘tis clear the familiar smile does not leave his features; you only hope his continued favorable mood is implication of his willingness to share any possible solutions to whatever troublesome phenomenon invades your dreams. “I dreamt of you and -”

Though the events after the dream were lost to you - the violent wanderings recounted by Thancred to your horror  - an intrusive, niggling _question_ rises that demands assumptions be challenged.

Darkness, much like tonight’s; slow, certain footfalls meeting solid stone; white cloth magnifying even the most out-of-place gleam; aetheric touch, caring as a chirurgeon’s. Sharp, lingering details slowly extricate themselves from deep memory which, had it been a dream, should have been irretrievable by now.  There can be but one truth. “‘Twas not a dream.”

“Remarkable.” Elidibus prove far more tolerant of your impudence than you’d expect of such a meeting, as if he holds personal stake in matters. His continued interest only enhances your confusion. “The fractures mend even as we speak.”

“Fractures. . .”

As if made of pure crystal, Minfilia’s form shatters into a thousand thousand glittering shards in your mind’s eye. ‘ _We could put everything back together.’_  Where had the certainty of the proposal you pressed so fervently onto Thancred come from?

Elidibus interrupts morbid reverie. “Your concern is of lapses - of strange thoughts and desires, and of truths just beyond your reach.”

It is not a question, but you nod all the same.

But _\- How can he know?_  How can someone so alien know the troubles you cannot put to words?

“These are but forgotten shards of your past. With each recollection, you become whole once more.”

Whispered temptations, promises of fulfillment and an end to whatever _this_ is - Elidibus promises it all.

“You lie. I know my past.” A confident declaration made more out of need to deny Elidibus his victory than of truth; even as you speak the words, you know them to be false. Simultaneously, ‘tis an impossibility for there to be validity in his tale; your memories failed only recently, the rest of your past remains clear.

“Do you?” Such familiar condescension; Elidibus provokes an irritation that should not exist.  “Where did we first speak?”

Regardless, you choose to play his game.  It has been so long since then - so very long.

 _Vesper Bay_ , flits at the tip of your tongue, but something stops you; Elidibus has always been there, you may well have always known him.

Your hesitation is noted. “And where did we last speak?”

It was a familiar place, well known to both of you - a place you can put no name to, because you have never been there. An impossibly frustrating contradiction.

Elidibus continues his relentless barrage despite heavy silence; his is a ferocity, a passion, a _need_ to demonstrate the truth of his words.

You’ve not seen him quite like this.

“What was your last mission?”

 _Ishgard. Thordan._ That much is clear enough… and still, like droplets of rain on a still lake, the memory ripples in response to your focus, refusing to return a single thought you might grasp.

Never before have words rendered you so powerless.

You need not concede his victory; though Elidibus does not show it, his satisfaction is clear - a rare treat he seldom gets to flaunt over you. “You shall remember. And when you do, seek me out. I will hold nothing back.”

A moment later, the black is empty, leaving you alone in dread-filled stillness.

Seek _him_ out? Is he mad? You should tell the Scions of the incursion immediately.

No matter what logic dictates, you remain firmly in place.

After your last interaction with Thancred, any mention of an Ascian visit, even against your will, might well convince him your alliances have shifted.  At the very least, you should allow some few days for grief to give way to bonding before revealing such an encounter.

Even beyond that. . .

Elidibus promises answers, but the accursed man remains so _Ascian_ in his intent.  The more you recall, the more black hollowness swells in your stomach; that Elidibus has knowledge of your plight only enforces the danger. But would you willingly suppress the strange dreams, knowing their cause? Seal off a piece of yourself so that you might find comfort?

All the more reason to tell your friends; you might find a solution together.

But Y’shtola’s dismissal yet burns.

Nay, there’s little benefit to be had speaking with the Scions.  This is an issue you must come to terms with on your own.

 _Or perhaps not so alone_ , the depths of your mind whispers its forbidden temptation.

Curse Elidibus and his smug satisfaction. Though he knows the answers, he instead proposes more questions. You’ll not submit so easily to his demands, but nor can you seek help elsewhere for a time.

What else can can be done, but wait?


	16. Shades of Blue

Voices are not what you expected when you arrived at the heavy chestnut door marking Aymeric’s office in the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, but voices are what greet you; the Temple Knight who summoned you had mentioned no such meeting and you’ve no intention of intruding.

Simply listening shall suffice.

Alphinaud’s familiar formalities meet your ear first.  “. . .give me for having been unable to locate her.”

“There’s naught to forgive. The Warrior of Light does not want for demands on her time, I imagine.” They speak of you? “She is well, I trust?”

Alphinaud hesitates and you press your ear to the door. “She seems. . . disquieted of late. I know not its cause, be it illness or exhaustion or some personal matter, and ‘tis not my place to intrude; I fear recent events have taken a much greater toll than they would have were she well.” Through narrowed eyes, the carved patterns beneath your fingers blur; it should be _your_ decision alone to reveal frailties of body or mind.

“I pray she recovers quickly. We may have need of her soon. Which brings me to my point. . .” Irritation sinks deeper into you; Aymeric speaks of you as a chocobo handler might a favorite thoroughbred.

Unacceptable.  You must put an end to their gossip before Alphinaud agrees to some proposal on your behalf; you'll not have your time planned for you - not when you’ve barely enough for yourself. A sharp shove sees the door swing open, and Alphinaud starts, jumping from his place and spinning around to face the unexpected guest. Aymeric stands equally hastily, relief writ plain on his features at your feigned curiosity. “Good day Ser Aymeric. . .and Alphinaud, what a surprise to see you here. I was told I was being looked for, but you weren't mentioned.”

“Ah, er - yes. I received word yesterday, while. . .” He clears his throat uncomfortably, avoiding the sensitive topic of Minfilia. “You left before I could deliver the message.”

“Incidentally, Tataru was looking for you. Something about the ledgers.” A lie, but only partly. Tataru's always open for financial discussions with those willing - or not - to listen.

“Indeed. Well! As my presence here is no longer required. . .pardon me, Ser Aymeric.” The two exchange diplomats’ polite bows before Alphinaud makes his exit; a final glare at the door closing in his wake satisfies your petty grudge and you mask your annoyance one more.

Aymeric stands amid sparse furnishings and absurdly high ceilings that dwarf him, a man who would boast an average Elezen’s height in any other setting, and make him briefly seem a child playing at leadership. Despite his relative warmth compared to others of his nation, his is a stiff and proper demeanor, and already you feel him preparing to launch into a speech.

How decidedly _dull._

After a brief, polite amount of chatter, Aymeric begins the languorous wind to his reason for requesting your presence. “When the True Brothers of the Faith seized control of the Vault, I feared the worst. Yet in adversity were we blessed with the promise of peace between man and dragon, through Vidofnir's timely rescue of an innocent child.”

“Surely you don’t believe the people’s vengeance quelled by one fortuitously-timed act?”

Your interruption stuns Aymeric into brief silence, as if he had expected you to simply listen and agree with his prepared words. Perhaps, another time, you may have done just that. Slow paces draw you toward his desk, rather than waiting at an appropriately _stiff_ and _proper_ distance during his consideration.

“There are opponents, yes, but we have reached out to them and limited their influence. The time is now! We cannot let this opportunity pass us by, which is why I set about making formal arrangements for a peace conference between our people and Vidofnir’s.” His smile is one of a man satisfied to have gotten back to his plan.

Withholding a smirk of your own, you raise a leg to perch on the edge of his desk, appearing too deeply in thought to give the informality any consideration. “You’ve never been at war with Hraesvelgr’s brood. They seek only to peacefully live their lives in their own territory, away from your hostilities with Nidhogg.”

Aymeric deflates before you, his confidence faltering even as you idly trace a decorative lantern on the corner of his desk. “It will set a precedent for our opponents, both within and without, to see that peace with our enemy can _work._ Do you not believe so?”

Small candles yearn to flicker within the lantern, but wrought iron shields them from any air that would feed their chaotic dance and forces them into a tamed smolder. Even the cold stone of this place is uncomfortably stifling compared to _there_ \- wherever _there_ had been. “Indeed. Though they were not your enemy, they bear the same shape, and Ishgard’s prejudices _may_ begin to subside.”

Standing once more, your paces slowly bring you behind the desk, feigning temporary interest in the pair of crossed halberds on the wall that dominate the room’s decor. Aymeric hesitates; whether his hesitation is borne more of the uncertainty you’ve injected into his plans or your inappropriate informality, you can only wonder. “You will be attending, of course?”

His softened plea pulls from you an inscrutable smile. “Of course.” You pass your hand over one of the few open candles behind his desk, and the flame draws itself up toward you, flickering over your features and making the halberds’ shadows jump.

The stoic Lord Commander allows himself a long exhale. “Good. I feared you would refuse and our plans would be disrupted by Nidhogg. I felt such dread as I’ve not felt in years.”

How. . .honest. It takes some effort to maintain your smile as you turn toward him, still feeling the heat of the flames on your fingertips. “‘Tis very admirable, you know. That you would give your all for what you believe is best for Ishgard.” He turns, about to stammer out a half-sincere dismissal of your praise, but is stopped by the back of a finger trailing down his cheek. “You’re like your father in that regard.”

Despite a noticeable bristling at Thordan’s name, Aymeric does not move from your invasive position behind his desk together. “That is one man with whom I would rather not be compared. . .”

“Is it so terrible? The ambitious plans, the people’s love - say what you will about him, but he was willing to go farther than any of his predecessors to bring an end to this war.” Consumed by your thoughts - or so it appears - you take even his chair for your own; it has wanted for use since you entered the room. “Though your choice of ending is far more commendable, I suppose.”

“His reign was a lie that held his people captive to circumstances of birth. They deserve peace and freedom; I will see both in place ere the end! I am _not_ like him -” Aymeric stumbles forward, a hand clutching an arm of his now-occupied chair, pain contorting his expression into a grimace; you reach up to steady him, concern masking a dark amusement you dare not show. He sought to use the Warrior of Light as if you were some prized steed, yet how easy it was to render him vulnerable to you. . .

“'Tis nothing, 'tis nothing.” He sighs heavily as he rights himself with careful movements. “Lucia cautioned me against giving vent to my passions, lest my wounds reopen.”

“Please, sit.” You stand and guide him to his chair, but remain close at hand, ensuring his health with insistent, fussy examinations; even as you check his forehead for fever, he avoids your gaze in hopes of discouraging your touch. “You bear so much love for your people. He did, too.”

Pregnant silence rests between you, the nagging urge driven by your determination to speak of Thordan finally taking root within Aymeric. “He was so certain he would bring about change and free our nation from the sins of antiquity. Yet it matters not what form that change takes; if its source is a lie, it cannot found a stable Ishgardian future.”

Aymeric prattles on, but you hardly hear him, his platitudes striking one of Elidibus’ ‘forgotten shards.’

_The self proclaimed god-king stood before you. Newborn and drunk with power, his first act was a mocking demonstration of the folly of opposing his power by consuming the very beings that you need “mortal contrivances” to destroy._

_Her_ anguished shrieks of rage at the revelation of Thordan’s betrayal were quickly and eternally silenced by his abhorrent light.

“Are you alright, my friend?” Aymeric's voice summons you back to the present - and with it comes a _seething_ roiling within that refuses to be contained let alone masked, and his dumbfounded expression is soon replaced by one of irritation. “You were the last person I expected to sing his praises, but no amount of small redeeming qualities erases his betrayals. This is _not_ something I shall be convinced of.”

Hands shaking, nails digging into your palms almost until flesh tears, it takes every effort to reign in an urge to strike Ishgard’s acting leader for the simple crime of familial resemblance to the _traitor_. “On that we agree.”

Turning quickly and striding away toward the door, you ignore the utterly baffled stare boring into your back, that you might preserve the safety of the one wearing it if you are overtaken by this strange, sourceless anger.

_Traitor._


	17. Sparking the Blaze

She darts like flame rising through dry brush, her whispers an irresistible incense that confirms preconceived bias.

“He’d do the same to us as he did to that poor girl if he could get away with it. We’re not _people_ to the bluebloods.”

A conference of peace turned to destruction; to the fearful, such chaos is a calming allure - a promise of justice and peace of mind.

“There are more of _us_ than there are of _them_.”

They know the words but not the speaker; theirs is a rallying cry against the leadership that betrays them, a growing wave of unspoken rage and unfulfilled promise.

“If we run now, they win. We _must_ fight!”

At conflict’s onset, the broken vessel renews his frenetic search for his lost savior in vain hope that she might stand with him against the rising tide.

Savior and instigator, vessel seeking possessor; multifaceted ironies bring Elidibus fleeting amusement.

Unfavorably, Lahabrea’s arrogance manifests easily in her whispers.  Unstable and indistinct, she habitually displays little care for the consequences of being seen; rarely a worry to their kind, such considerations are irrelevant to the dominant memories newly etched upon her soul.

That will not do.

The former vessel’s search, once futile, narrows in on its target, threatening to reveal unfortunate truths. Though he might yet overlook her, Elidibus is not wont to leave their fates to chance.

Such troublesome necessities; he had not intended to make his presence known.

A simple rend, stepping near enough that the mortal's attention is drawn to familiar ritualistic garments, is Elidibus’ sole gift to the renewed Lahabrea.

Understanding immediately fills the seeker’s features; justice, righteousness, duty all flit in cyclic conflict through him.  It takes naught but a moment before his path becomes clear; idealistic trust that his beloved companion will adequately stymie the swelling tides guides his hand.

Elidibus turns from him, slowly walking against the wave; he needs but earn her a few moments, so that she might regain her composure.

They cannot continue this displeasing existence; where should be balance instead exists a deepening abhorrent rend. More joined than Elidibus dared consider after minimal observation, they wax and wane, too individually willful to accept their union.

At last having drawn the Scion to a destination far from the warrior, Elidibus makes for her side, darkness's languid spill a final taunt to his pursuer.

There is yet time to set their flawed existence to rights, to mend them as he does Hydaelyn’s.

In this state, the warrior’s essence is a familiar beacon; locating her poses none of the difficulties to Elidibus that it does her mortal companions. He steps from the rift to her side; the siren’s chaotic whispers to the masses coursing around her fall silent as she greets the unwelcome intruder.

She stills, memories of Elidibus contradictory and fundamentally incompatible. With widened eyes, the Warrior reawakens, Lahabrea returning once again to dormancy.

A displeasing resolution that further exacerbates her instability, but Elidibus can expect no more from such a hasty solution.

“No. . .” Even overwhelmed by confusion does she understand the dire ramifications of her broken surroundings.

“You’d best return to your companions.”  There are no answers that he might share - not under these circumstances.  They were not intended to meet again so soon.

Though displeased at his evasion, logic quickly gains the upper hand in her growing internal conflict.

A final cursory glance at Elidibus before her departure speaks volumes of her deterioration into despair.

Nay, that will not do at all.


	18. Precipice

He’s not to sleep.

A barrage of pathetic whimpers and dazed queries assault you from the nearby stretcher; Ishgard’s chirurgeons busy themselves with triage of the riot’s various injuries while Emmanellain remains in your temporary care.

Your care. . .and Thancred’s, though he appears to have even less patience for the boy’s self-piteous sniveling than you do.

“I don’t understand… what happened? How did it all go wrong?”

Thancred tuts disapprovingly at Emmanellain’s pouting and, rather than heeding him, continues to pace, tense as a caged coeurl, irritation barely restrained within balled fists. He's barely acknowledged you since the riot’s pacification and you cannot shake the festering dread in your breast that his negativity might be directed towards you. The silence lingers heavily and at last you chance a question in hopes of drawing Thancred from his anxious contemplation.  “The crowd did this to him?”

Unfortunately confirming your fears, Thancred stills, incredulous, and meets your gaze with a narrowed eye. “Obviously. You saw them, did you not? They were out for blood.”

So discomforting is his glare that you turn away, busying yourself with checking the lordling’s bandage; changed just a moment ago, the red stain grows more slowly this time than last. “It looked like he was hit by a piece of broken masonry.”

“I wouldn’t know. I left him so that I might find you.” Slow and deliberate, Thancred displays little caution, words carrying an edge sharper than either of his blades.  Should you turn around, his glare will doubtless be laden with blame.

His questions, when they come, will be more than fair but impossible to answer, and you would avoid -

“Where were you?”

Remaining over Emmanellain despite having naught left to attend to, you hesitate.  You must needs choose your words with care, lest whispers of Scion conflict reach more threatening ears.  “As I said. . .that serving girl put something in my drink.”

“I found the cup. There’d been enough sleeping potion in it that I could still smell the saffron. _You_ should’ve been out cold close by.”

“Could it have been a sleepwalking draught of some kind?” Without knowing whether such a thing exists, you can but offer it up as a possibility to reign in Thancred’s fantasies.

Your explanation is rewarded with naught but continued ominous silence that lingers so long that you finally risk turning to Thancred, fearing some other trouble is afoot. Yet his posture remains unchanged; Thancred frustratingly awaits an answer that will satisfy him - one you’re incapable of providing.  “I told you, I woke midst the chaos.”

His eyes finally close, head tilting down slightly; when they reopen a moment later, the anticipated suspicion at last makes itself known. “Is this happening often?”

 _Yes._ But he cannot know - not yet. Panic twists into feigned exasperation; his barrage of questions would be unreasonable and uncaring under any other circumstance. “Thancred, I was _poisoned!_ What do you _want_ from me?”

“You could be more careful, for one! I needed your help!” He closes the distance between you, rage threatening to boil over.

All the while Emmanellain whimpers, caught between quarreling members of an order intended to represent peace, likely sorry the attention has shifted from him.

“What difference could I have made? That was a riot, Thancred. All the temple knights at hand couldn’t contain it.” Though intended to soothe, Thancred’s jaw instead clenches.

“There was an Ascian lurking. The one in white. You should have been there to help me find him.” His voice carries a quiet, hateful danger that chills your veins. _He did not see - please -_ “And you aren’t surprised.”

“I -”  Your stomach drops, throat tightening and tongue refusing to heed you; even if only for an instant, Thancred surely notices the budding hesitation in your half-truths. “I wasn’t certain I saw him. . .it was soon after I awakened and he was far away, blocked by the mass of bodies. You confirm something I’d hoped I imagined.”

“‘ _Something you’d hoped you imagined_?’ Not long ago you’d have brought such concerns to light unprompted.”

“What are you accusing me of? Taking a bell to organize my thoughts after finding myself drugged in what should have been a safe place? Gods forbid the Warrior of Light ever displays such mundane a feeling as fear.”

You choose to remain vague about _what_ you fear.

At the truthful admission of vulnerability, Thancred momentarily falls to silence, but he’ll not be denied so easily. “'Feelings’ aren't at issue here, and you know it. You've changed, and not for the better. I asked you to share your burdens, but you conceal them instead. What little you do show is. . . disturbing.”

Rage flares, scorching away rationality - _the truth_ , his glare demands, relentless and unwavering; _trust_ , your mind shrieks in return, _is it truly so much to ask_?  Thancred insists you share your troubles in the same breath as he disparages them.

“What was that yesterday? About Minfilia. You sounded - nay, you _were_ different.” It seems the depths of your plight have finally dawned upon him; in contrast to his earlier behavior, this lacks accusation, more earnest question than demand. But the realization comes too late; you’ve had more than enough of his needling. 

Of course you're different. Trials and losses ever compounding - if you’d a gil for each time you've heard the words “relax” or “well-earned rest” of late -

“‘Twas equal parts grief and determination. I thought you might understand, given your devotion to her. . and your reason for it.” His shock proves remarkably satisfying; ‘tis not a story he tells often or willingly, and common decency dictates you hold your tongue and allow him his private pain, but he’ll regret -

 _No._ You firmly put growing irrationality to rest; no matter your disgust, it will not do to lose yourself to this foreign rage. More subtle words, mired in implication and memory, however. . . “A familiar scene, this.”

An untold tale - an eternal regret -  and with it, further reminder of failure. Persistent and overbearing, imagined inadequacies gnaw at Thancred, even after such wounds once allowed --

Allowed you -

So easily -

An anguished cry rips you from memory’s precipice; greeted by the sight of Thancred’s fist slamming into a nearby wall, Emmanellain, having silenced himself for the duration of your discussion, yelps at the frightening outburst.

You do not flinch.

The memory fades as would a dream, irrecoverable without the proper focus.  Gods _damn_ it all, these - these. . .

Thancred’s attention turns to the bloody knuckles of his - despite his uncommon strength - too-fragile body.

They're just so -

Emmanellain moans yet another “what was I supposed to do?” in lamentation of his bruised ego more than his damaged skull.

\- fragile; emotional; _pathetic_.

Yet were you not just on the verge of an outburst of your own? _Understandable,_ whispers self-delusion; nay, that you _feel_ is unimportant, emotion has never rendered you inert.  Duty instead dictates that you rise above such frailties; those most vulnerable must needs be enthralled by your example and see you as a paragon they should aspire to become.

A lengthy time passes in silence; when the chirurgeons return to take Emmanellain away, Thancred takes his leave wordlessly.

What trust remains between you is uncertain - as is your feeling that this is for the best.


	19. Respite Under a Broken Bough

Once more do you return to the solar after victory over a false God; though the participants are drastically altered, the scene remains comforting in its familiarity.

Unukalhai does not presume to sit in Minfilia’s place - you know not if ‘twill ever be occupied again - and instead dutifully leans against the familiar desk’s front side, placidly awaiting your return as if in prolonged meditation. Your approaching footfall the anticipated messenger, his serenity is broken and he stands in greeting, white mask facing you in full; even concealed as he is, Unukalhai somehow reveals a warm, eager demeanor more common from an expectant client than a boy who willfully shrouds himself in secrecy.

‘Tis a relief to see that in many ways he is yet a child.

“So, Warrior of Light, how did it feel to strike down so great a foe? You must tell me more of the experience once our meeting with your colleagues is concluded. . .”

A genuine smile serves as anticipatory promise; with the constant despairing weight of secrets pressing upon your shoulders, ‘tis nigh impossible to put to words how _right_ challenging the Fiend felt. The clarity of battle serves as a clear reminder of what you’ve lost, offering a brief lighthearted respite free of the now-constant plague of sullenness and irritation. ‘Twas a simple, familiar matter: there was a threat, and now the threat is diminished.

And _what_ a threat indeed; had Thordan succeeded in awakening not just the Fiend, but his two bound contemporaries as well, absorbing them as he did Igeyorhm. . . he may truly have become the god-king he so desperately desired to be. A flawless plan, save for your intervention. You’d been so distracted by Ishgard’s war against Nidhogg’s brood that had Bismarck not chanced into their path, Thordan’s Ascian puppetmasters would likely have succeeded.

The warmth of satisfaction must needs be indulged in at a later time; Urianger, Y’shtola, and Krile enter together, ready to discuss the ramifications of the Fiend’s defeat.  So then it comes as no surprise when Urianger begins the meeting proper with cautions of the remaining Triad members’ strength, emphasizing the need for careful preparation.

“Assuming the Garleans afford us the luxury of time. Even now, they grasp for the means to dominate primals, blind to the technology's potential for calamity.” The last phrase carries an undertone you find difficult to place; Unukalhai hides his emotions well, but that he has some personal stake in the matter is clear enough. “My master taught me that the entity known as Sephirot was this world's first sacred tree, elevated to godhood by the belief of its worshipers. There is no power more fearsome than that born of unconditional faith and unbending ideal.”

_Fire consumes a distant shore, arms raised, exulting -_

“'Tis plain your master found in you a willing student. Tell me, was it he who taught you of Allagan technology's ‘potential for calamity,’ or are those your own words?”

“Y’shtola.” You scold in warning, though in truth the thought had occurred to you as well. But the boy has demonstrated his willingness to aid you in dispatching ancient eikons of surpassing power and Y’shtola surely understands, as you do, the necessity of demonstrating open-mindedness whilst pursuing the Scions’ primary goal.

That, and you cannot help but sympathize with the thinly-veiled accusations being leveled at Unukalhai after recent similar encounters with your comrades.

Clearing his throat, Unukalhai continues, politely ignoring the disruption. “‘Twas but a figure of speech, naught more.”  Any doubts remain unassuaged and further unwanted questions are deflected with his usual aloof calm. “As long as our purposes align, what matter my affiliation?”

“It matters a great deal. I do not ask out of idle curiosity - if we are to fight as comrades, we must needs be able to trust each other.” Respectably, Krile expresses her concern rationally, rather than posing leading questions; ‘tis reasonably concerning that a new ally of unknown allegiance might shift goals or sides amidst a dire situation.

Perhaps that’s why Urianger accompanies Unukalhai when possible; even as his advocate, Urianger’s strongest endorsement of the boy was no better than “not our enemy for the time being.”

“Anyway, we’d best be off. Do send word if there are any further developments!” With a pleasant wave, Krile files from the room, returning to whatever various duties she busies herself with, Y’shtola in her wake.  She does little to lessen the weight of her antagonism and you refuse to meet her gaze, instead turning your attentions to the curiously lingering Urianger, who follows his peers in contemplative silence naught but a moment later, at last leaving you alone in the warm, familiar room with cold, alien Unukalhai.

An interruption seems the only way to regain Unukalhai’s attention, lost in thought as he seems. Surely he did not forget your promise so quickly.  “Is something troubling you?”

“. . .Nay.” Unukalhai shakes his head. “Only that I did not expect Mistress Krile’s friendliness to follow so easily on the heels of her mistrust.”

“Perhaps she simply hopes you’ll return it.” The solemn boy mulls once more, heeding your advice with a warming thoughtfulness. “You asked to hear more of the battle?”

“Oh, yes.” He reaches over, searching for something; tucked away under the book in which he documents the Triad’s activities, he pulls out a writing pad and draws the ink and quill near enough to easily access with a faint _clink_.  “I was able to watch from above with Mistress Krile, but I would hear your perspective as well.”

“I’m not going to read about this in the _Mythril Eye,_ am I?” Clearly the boy is no reporter, but the tease rewards you with a satisfying fluster all the same.

“The. . .? Ah. No, of course not. That is - Urianger asked -” His awkward attempts at explanation stop at the sound faint chuckles; only belatedly does he understand your jest, though he seems to appreciate it. “Forgive me. You exceed even your own legend; ‘tis difficult to watch a hero demonstrate her full strength and then do anything but take her seriously.”

His surprisingly earnest compliments are heartening. Your fellow Scions give thanks, but such acts are so expected, mayhap even mundane, that they’ve grown accustomed to your abilities. Unfamiliar outpourings like this, or like Krile’s in Azys Lla, that are more than petty flattery and formalities serve as a rare reminder of your true position and strength. “Thank you.”

“Nay, ‘tis all this star who should thank you.”

Heat rises in your face at the continued praise as Unukalhai busies himself with finding a new page in his small book; more are filled than you might have expected, though the glimpses you catch of his shorthand are nigh unreadable, almost as if he does not favor recording in Eorzean. “It seems you enjoy writing.”

He stops searching the pages as he considers your question. “Enjoy. . . I hadn't considered. It is a duty, but. . .I suppose I do.”

“So your duty is to write the next volume of Triad history for your master?” Ignoring his stammered mention of Urianger from a moment ago, you dare broach the forbidden topic instead.

“Indeed. Shall we get on with the battle? I wouldn’t want to keep you.” Though expected, there is no subtlety in the subject change, as it comes just as he finds a blank sheet on which to begin anew.

Quill to page, he spends the next bell in easy conversation regarding the Triad and your earlier struggles, captivated by your every tale, asking necessary questions and diligently recording answers.

Absorbed in his recordings, only once Unukalhai catches sight of the room’s shortened candles does he at last set his quill down. “I should not keep you any longer.  Though I do have one more question, one of more personal nature, if you might permit me.”

Silence serves as tacit agreement and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Does such a battle ever leave you feeling. . . I believe you call it aether sickness? Or any other strange symptoms?”

Your smile drops; his mask betrays no hint as to whether his intentions entirely innocent and you take pains to evade potential subtext. “No. Should they?”

“Even much later? Any troubles at all.” He absently folds his notebook closed; so this is a personal curiosity, not a matter of record.

Just when you’d been willing to admit you felt comfortable around him, he pierces your armor. “The Echo safeguards us from such things, does it not? What effects would slip through?”

_Lapses? Strange thoughts and desires? Truths just beyond your reach?_

Unukalhai considers for a moment. “My apologies; you are right, of course. Forget I asked. Please do not let me keep you from your duties in the north. I believe Urianger mentioned some manner of war games?”

“Concluded.” You smirk, recalling Thancred’s bitter sardonicism; Ishgard’s reliance on you for battle was well noted.  “Handily.” Though the aches on his heart are yet raw, Thancred’s wounds seem to heal through combat nigh as well as yours.

“It must have been good to see your compatriots from the rest of Eorzea. You’ve been in Ishgard for a long while now.”

Had it been? The melee had presented little challenge and you’d been clapped and cheered at as a spectacle; Unukalhai’s genuine appreciation is a relief after such a circus.

That you cannot muster even polite enthusiasm after prolonged consideration is noted. “I see. They know not how lucky they are to have you.”

Such earnestness once more catches you off guard; his detachment and masked countenance makes it difficult to anticipate such impassioned outpourings. “Thank you. I’ll have to do my best to live up to your expectations. Good day, Unukalhai.”

He bids farewell with a polite bow and you exit the solar and the Stones, intent on returning to Ishgard.

Such a curious boy - even after prolonged discussion, you know no more about him than you did when you received his initial missive. How desperately he feigns aloofness toward every subject but you; how unusual his knowledge for one so young.

His trappings and mask shroud him in mystery and hide his insecurities and fears; his evasiveness about his master and his piercing questions make trust difficult. Yet his appreciativeness of your efforts and willingness to listen make him unique among your companions of late.

For now, he has earned some measure of trust.


	20. Metamorphosis

Perpetual Coerthan winter stings your cheeks, winds barely dampened by the battlements of Falcon’s Nest.

Paces slow and lackadaisical, taking every care not to raise tensions by looking like the guard you are, you wander idly through the growing crowd. There will not be a repeat of the last peace conference; every available Temple Knight, Brume watch, and Scion has been called to keep order.  It happens from time to time that your eyes scan over a familiar face, but all are of similar focus; a brief exchange of tense nods is your only interaction before returning to your respective duties, so ‘tis unexpected when Krile instead calls your name, summoning you to her side with a brief flick of her wrist.

With such a distance between you, the situation's severity proves challenging to read.  Wordlessly pushing your way through the crowd, rapid footfall alerting some few oblivious Ishgardians who may not have otherwise noticed your presence, Krile leads you to a quiet corner against the fortifications. Be them dire or curious, the contents of her status report must be important to require such discretion, especially after your previous disastrous encounter. Though she dares not display it openly, Krile has been fairly wary of you in her time with the Scions, and you've kept your distance in accordance with her wishes.

“I think we have a moment to talk before the conference begins and, well, I wanted to apologize to you.”

 _That_ is the intent of her summoning? Now is not the time for such pleasantries, not with the looming threat of the Horde's attack, but you’ll not forsake the chance to mend brittle bridges, not after you’ve broken so many others. “Oh? Whatever for?”

“I’ve been distant. Rudely so. I hope it hasn’t soured any friendship we might still build.”

You daren't mention that Krile is not the only Scion keeping their distance.  “I thought you were simply burdened by your introduction to Eorzea. And after we learned of Minfilia. . . Apologies, there’s been much on my mind.  Did I give offense at some point?”

“It’s absurd, really.” Krile reveals rare hesitation; the uncertainty of a woman so normally confident raises your trepidation. “I saw something through the Echo that made me question your motives. I was so cautious; the tales speak of your greatness and such a newcomer to Eorzea couldn’t very well slander a famed heroine - but after that battle with Sephirot, how could I have doubted for a moment?”  At last fully overcoming her hesitation, the rapidly tumbling admission halts as quickly as it began; a faint blush crawls over Krile’s cheeks, embarrassed at the run-on litany. “- so I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I hope we can still be friends?”

“Of course.”  She smiles at you and though you feign one of equal warmth in return, your heart pounds. Almost daily you push others away; who is to say you’ll not do the same to her - _again_? “Krile, what manner of tale birthed such worry?”

“Oh, gods, I can’t even believe it any more. Promise you won’t laugh?” There’s risk in making such promises when you know not what you agree to, but you nod nonetheless. “I thought -” She sighs once more, steeling her nerves. “- I thought you might be possessed by an Ascian.”

All the winds and waters of Coerthas may well have come crashing down upon you at once, leaving naught but numb shock spreading through your limbs, stiff as frozen beasts in the West Highlands. Has your heart stilled, or does it yet race underneath the ice? _Impossible._

Krile prattles on: “I saw some memory of theirs. There were two of them.  It was very brief and it felt like it came from you, but there must have been one lurking nearby -”

Yet amidst distress, warmth blooms; amusement at Krile’s flustered babbling proves an anchoring pleasure, one that keeps you afloat in the tumultuous swell of emotions building in your chest. “That _is_ serious. I can see why it would give you pause.”

_The Emissary's presence was no coincidence._

Krile’s relief is enough assurance that your turmoil remains private. “I’m so glad you understand! I was still so new here, and - well, I’m starting to repeat myself, aren’t I? I hope we can move past this now.”

“Yes. . . thank you for telling me.” The pretense rewards you with a radiant smile as she waves and turns to resume her patrols. _Does a shadow lurk within you, listening, even now -_

Krile must be mistaken.  ‘Twould not be the first time Hydaelyn granted Her servants visions of Darkness and Ascians. She once gifted you knowledge as well; the Blade of Light rose from within as if from forgotten memory, revealing the potential depths of Her influence over Her children.

Hydaelyn, Hydaelyn, all meddling leads back to Hydaelyn.

 _Nay_ , that’s not -

The last remnants of warmth Krile’s presence provided flicker and fade, leaving you only surrounded by the bare cold stone of Falcon’s Nest; when did your thought process so mutate?

Surely ‘tis imagination and naught more; the disgust at what Hydaelyn has done to Minfilia - Her secrecy and Her demands - swells solely of your experience - not these uncharacteristically irritable delusions.

_Hear -_

Faint whispers of memory that are more than illusion.

_Feel -_

Growing disgust feeds determination; through unmatched passion does pride bloom.

_Think -_

Secretive meetings in the night, their meanings ne’er elusive, were you only to -

You shake your head clear of such condemning thoughts, daring not tread the clearest path.

‘Tis all such lunacy; logic dictates the simplest answer must be the truest.  Krile’s vision was a misunderstanding; visions without control of the Gift are often unclear.

And even if naught but this basest hope drives you forward, you’ll cling as tightly as you can for as long as you must.

Shout or cry, an intrusive echo blessedly disrupts the damning abyss and returns your attention to the assignment.

Aye, guard duty.  Such irresponsible lapses cannot be tolerated; if aught happens while you’re on watch -

Frantic scuffling overtakes your senses; heavy footfall and cries - panic and anger both - reveal your failure.  No light disturbance would disrupt the entire fort and your gaze immediately darts to the vulnerable Lord Commander.

A duty you know well; a clarifying responsibility that banishes the darkness.  The role’s familiarity births confidence, dispelling the chill of icey droplets on your cheeks.

You make it no more than two paces before you still; as if one mind, every Ishgardian’s focus locks onto the sky, prey warily eyeing a yet unseen predator, and with the motion silence’s intangible burden falls. As if from a wave of despair, a heavy weight  visibly slumps the knights’ shoulders; a foreboding omen, one that churns your stomach. With bated breath, you hesitantly follow their gaze.

Red engulfs your vision, tearing down tenuous walls of restraint.

Your teeth grit; _that_ infernal eye etches into raw flesh, its owner having overtaken a vulnerable host.  That was to be _your_ tool; they were _all_ your tools. It was instead abused by traitors and used to end _her_.

Barely disguised tremors send a tingling tenseness suffusing through your muscles; glazed eyes unblinking, barely heeding the growing blur, his visage etches itself clearly into your mind, solidifying your purpose. This abomination - this abhorrent chimera -  must meet his end. Too long have others interfered -

At the edge of your hearing, the Wyrm’s presence inspires chaos.  Theirs is naught but a negligible buzz; ‘tis a name, spoken in half panic by a voice you cannot put face to, that commands your attention, drawing you like vilekin to flame.

 _That_ accursed name.

 _Your_ name.

Be it from anger or irony, a harsh sound erupts from your throat, somewhere between snarl and laughter. 

As it once was;

As it was ever intended to be.

But ne’er like this.


	21. Despair and Desperation

Feet strike worn stone - heavily, rapidly - doorways and turns a peripheral blur.

Would that _those_ thoughts obscure themselves so easily; they pursue with the tenacity of a hunting hound and any hesitation might well be a pitfall leading to your demise.

‘Tis not true. She was mistaken. Even Krile knew she was mistaken.

Something hard halts forward movement and for a brief moment what little control remaining within your flesh falters as you tumble through the air. The uneven, sharp edges of a stairwell meet gloved hands, immediately shredding the top layer of worn leathers.  

A step to stop a step; the feral beasts circle their vulnerable supper.

Ragged, high-pitched laughter tumbles from your lips, grating your ears, but you’ve no recollection of commanding such hysterics.

Alphinaud asked for a friend to whom he could unburden his heart.

Impossible. You’re in no state to mend yourself, let alone indulge his insecurities.

Nay, the need now is for focus. Direction. A mission. 

Up and forward, you continue; the Temple Knight acting as gatekeeper to Ishgard’s Lord Commander attempts interference, but he withers easily before a demanding glare. As he steps aside without further complaint, calm slowly descends and douses your frenzy.  How convenient that there are so few places from which you would truly be barred; few would deny such a well-known hero aught within their power to grant, especially if presented with promises of future favors.

The heavy door yields as easily as its guard, startling the room’s sole occupant. Aymeric meets your gaze with an irritated scowl; be it from recent events or your hasty intrusion, he wears his exasperated vulnerability clearly, but returns his attention to the page before him quickly enough.

Aymeric, too, suffers the urgency of his duty; after the wyrm’s appearance at Falcon’s Nest, it seems he returned to his office and began writing so quickly that he’d not bothered to light the candles on its overbearing stone walls, the lone lamp on his desk cascading long, flickering shadows across his features.

“Forgive me, my friend. These orders must needs be issued to our knights immediately.” A statement challenging in its finality; he dips his quill in ink as if to punctuate its severity and, in so doing, conveys his dismissal.

But you’ve not fallen so far that you’ll be discarded as easily as common rubbish.  So eager was Aymeric to have your aid in reserve when you last met; he’ll find you no mere tool of convenience, he’ll have your guidance _now_. “What are your plans? I will assist, if you but tell me how.”

The quill’s tip hovers half an inch from parchment; ever the dutiful commander, Aymeric refuses to set aside his duty, even as he gathers his thoughts. “I mean to draw Nidhogg’s shade to a confrontation by sending ranging parties to provoke his brood.” His words are heavy and weary, just as they surely were in his heart before speaking them.

He's loath to raise a hand against his friend; even now he wishes to preserve Estinien while destroying Nidhogg. A predictable desire; a _convenient_ desire.

“A confrontation? How would you battle Nidhogg? Your arrow --”

“I don’t know!” In one swift motion, he slams his quill down and shoves his chair back from the desk with a long screech.  Standing at full height, his chest heaves under and erratic breaths.  Turning from you, Aymeric pinches the bridge of his nose, desperately seeking to regain some semblance of composure.

“Demanding that bow must have been difficult.” He offers no indication he hears you, silent and still in response, focusing on calming his heaving breaths. “I admire that you chose to fire it for yourself rather than order an archer to do it. Even now you refuse to ask for my help.” Another calculated pause, one that rewards you with a pained sigh. “It must be that you feel responsible for this.”

“Had I been a better friend - helped him quell his rage rather than ask him to harness it for Ishgard. . .” He turns in attempt to conceal unmasked despair. “Now, all of Ishgard is in danger.”

Such doubts weave a tale of narcissism unlike Aymeric’s usual ambitionless humility, placing him at the center of events that had little to do with him. Estinien’s rage would never have been quelled by so simple a gesture. If Aymeric seeks absolution, he’ll find none from you. “It isn’t too late for you to atone, but you’ll not do it with arrows.” With an extended hand, you await his inevitable acceptance; Aymeric’s not fool enough to reject your offer of aid, no matter how intensely doubt gnaws at him.

They ne’er do.

Aymeric swallows, gaze boring into your open palm, then darting from the floor to the lanterns, refusing to meet your eyes, each muscle tense until nigh ready to snap.  At long last he exhales, slowly grasping your hand with trembling fingers.

A reassuring smile is Aymeric’s reward, a gift that makes him fidget uncharacteristically even though you bear no insincerity; your goal to destroy the eyes and any host that challenges you remains unchanged. With an awkward cough, his fingers slither from your grasp, the tension at long last leaving his muscles as his attentions return to the parchment bearing half-written, hasty commands. “If we do not draw him out prematurely, we’ll be left at his mercy when he returns at full strength.”

“Aymeric,” you chide gently, “even as he is now, you could not hope to defeat this reborn Nidhogg with every able-bodied fighter in Ishgard behind you. That he has escaped you is a blessing. Your world would have returned to ash.” Such implications make your heart skip a beat and quicken your pulse, both.

“What can we do?” His voice is quiet as if shamed,  Aymeric at last overcoming his mistrust.

“Shore your defenses. We must needs acquire power so that we might meet Nidhogg on equal terms when he inevitably returns.”

“That is your role in all this, is it not?” Unknowable possibilities cross his mind, marked only by a crease in his brow. He think so highly of you, but even had you adequate strength, you’ve no intention of banishing this foe on your own.

“You flatter me. But I fear we would need more still. . .Perhaps. . .” Your lips curl in satisfaction as warmth blooms within; you know just the thing to suggest. An image flashes to mind of all of Ishgard kneeling before the statue of Halone that dominates the great cathedral -

You gasp, every muscle suddenly tense.

Had you really just been on the brink of proposing such -

“Perhaps. . .?” Aymeric’s puzzled expression questions your incomplete thought, and his question drags you back from the brink, if only barely.

“The thought seems to have escaped me.” A short, hysterical laugh breaks through panicked stillness; where words once slid easily from your lips, they now prove elusive, your tongue thick. “Shall I inform you the moment I’ve prepared a suitable plan?”

“Please. I shall do the same. Until then, we defend as ever. . .my friend.”

No longer an open tome, Aymeric’s clipped suspicion is barely audible above the pound of your heart; contrary to your original intent, meeting with Aymeric has done naught but worsen your ailment.

Far more quickly than is proper, you flee, once again stumbling into Ishgard’s stinging, crisp air, not even heeding the Ishgardian tradition of departure formalities; freedom from stone’s confines summons the briefest clarity, but you’d sooner shroud your growing intrusive, inappropriate fantasies.

_Nay_ , you’ve not the time to contemplate such ominous foreboding. There are yet duties you might attend;  Alphinaud wished to speak with you privately. Perhaps he will have some request of you that will take your focus away from the horrors birthed of a troubled mind.


	22. Lahabrea

This is what you wanted.

Pausing at weather-worn wood, you trail the ornate Ishgardian patterns with bare fingers.

A duty. A mission. An embrace of an intimately familiar role, that you might once more dispel this darkness.

Without risking further hesitation, Dragonhead’s intercessory door swings open with a firm push, announcing your presence with a prolonged creak. In the flickering candlelight of the private chamber, a peculiarly candid moment awaits; Alphinaud drapes over a chair like a bored teenager, idly tapping his fingers, quickly jumping to attention from his seat to greet you.  Were you not struggling to maintain composure, you might have laughed, but Alphinaud is instead granted the mercy of feigned ignorance.

At the weak smile offered in greeting, Alphinaud gently and politely welcomes you in turn, remarking on your apparent exhaustion as he gestures towards an empty seat across from him.  You must truly look ghastly.

You needn’t be told of your abysmal state, but hold your tongue, instead taking your place at the table.

“I had some cocoa made, but -”

Indeed, a silver mug sits in front of you, brown liquid within devoid of pleasant steam and scent. “I was delayed.” You’ll not explain your comings and goings to excuse cold cocoa.

Nor could you explain if required.

Alphinaud clears his throat, a sure sign of practiced remarks to follow. “It was not all that long ago that we sat here, you and I. In our very own ‘Falling Snows’. . .”

Try as you might to heed him - to be as loyal of companion as expected - a stifled sigh marks the limit of your attention for his recounting of recent history, though indeed your mind wanders to that time. There was only clarity and certainty of mind then, even as the future upended itself in accusations and schemes; when had everything changed?

That day seems like another life now, a page torn from a memory tome and carried to a stranger's hands on a gust of wind.

“Were I still commander of the Braves, I would doubtless have. . .”

Doubtless. . .? Whichever pages allowed you the luxury of doubtlessness have long since been struck through and rewritten. Your head falls forward into your hands, aching for some point to be made, some task to be assigned, _any_ role to play, if blissful silence must elude you.

Had you truly been on the brink of suggesting to Aymeric -

Nay, think of anything but that. Think of -

“I do not want to be a man who sacrifices his friends....”

 _I, I, I._ Naught but a self-absorbed brat playing at being a man.

Guilt follows the condemnation nigh immediately; such crass thoughts are unwarranted and, as with most of late, unlike you.

“. . .we may fail, but we must try.”

Yet is it possible to say what _is_ like you anymore? Thancred noted that you’d changed. . .

The cocoa nearby forms an unappetizing oily sheen over the top as it cools and separates; in the midst of contemplating one of its swirls, you realize silence has descended and look up to meet Alphinaud’s crestfallen stare. “You’ve not heard any of this.”

He cares not for the reason for your distraction or exhaustion, only that you hadn’t been able to focus on his outpourings. How very like him. Like _them_. Like _everyone_ \--

“Nay,” you admit; in desperation you’d selfishly hoped to use your duty to Alphinaud to clear your mind and have failed at even that, making mockery of his troubles in the process. “Excuse me, I am not well.”

Alphinaud stands alone with his thoughts once you shove yourself back from the table and turn to leave, his gaze and expression both fixed on where you were but a moment ago, equal parts dumbfounded and rueful.

How often you’ve seen that look of late; how often you’ve been its cause.

Dirt and snow crunch underfoot as you make your way to the small room allotted you within Dragonhead after your flight from Ul’dah, when Haurchefant had agreed to hide you and yours from any would-be accusers. 'Tis a small, cold thing in a far corner, unwanted by the garrison or civilians that make their homes here, but comforting in that it is yours alone.Its weathered spruce door, long past splinters, gives even more easily to your push than the intercessory.  Untouched by time itself, the cold, windowless chamber remains as always, save the absence of personal effects long since moved to Fortemps manor. 

‘Tis as barren as the plain, unlit stone halls of your dream and somehow even less familiar.

_Dreams._

The enclosed walls are tight, close and low, just like that -

 _Nay._ You reject the panicked delusion before it might grow to more; these walls will not harm you. Tentatively fingertips roam the stone, flinching back even when only the expected cold meets you. Laughter bubbles in your chest at your foolishness and you latch the door closed behind you.

Slowly and sluggishly you work at removing pointlessly constraining armor, normally-deft fingers refusing to heed your command, limited by trembles you equally refuse to acknowledge.

As with the chamber, your bed remains as you left it, untouched by Dragonhead’s denizens; thick patchwork furs rest atop unused linens. Content under their soothing embrace, you curl into the darkest corner, leaning against walls so cold that not even the furs fully mitigate their chill.  All is as you left it: warm, silent, and safe.  There’s no one to disturb you here.

You’ll hurt no one else.

Shadows and stone; you press your eyes closed, the intrusive image etched upon your memory refusing to leave your mind’s eye.  Lefts, rights, bare rooms and long-empty passages, all.  A route as familiar as that of Mor Dhona’s aetheryte to the Rising Stones.

You open your eyes; the stone is different, but the comforting protection of the shadows remains.

‘Tis so hard to differentiate now;

The light you’ve embodied -  
     Her _tainted walls_.  
Claws against your throat -  
     _The fragility of bare flesh under your fingers._  
Raging flames on an unfamiliar shoreline -  
     _Rousing warmth that catches your breath._  
Meetings in the dark -  
     _A familiar touch, now distant._

Violent shudders course your flesh, even as thick furs ward off the Highland chill. It’s not you - _you’d never_ -

The tremors refuse to subside, no matter how strongly you will them into submission.

Just like the thoughts.

This isn’t right; _none_ of it is right.

The Emissary warned of these ‘mending fractures,’ of further intrusive thoughts, but ‘twas not until after his magicks in Falcon’s Nest temporarily gifted you peace that they increased in intensity.

His is a devious hand, preying upon your vulnerability while feigning interest in your tribulations.  As he rightly anticipated, your options grow fewer by the day.  The others, so caught up in their battles, fail to understand, fail to realize -

Just as they failed Thancred.

The Scions remain unreasonable, having expected you to be so flawless - so inhuman -

As it ever should be, a paragon for others to strive towards.

_Nay, that’s - they’ve not -_

And now he’s all that’s left, an Emissary luring you with answers that no one else remains to provide.

Truly, a flawless plan.

Another bout of violent tremors sends the furs falling from your bare shoulders onto the bed.

Fire.

Warmth will purify this madness.

Cloaked in naught but shadow, you rise, approaching the hearth that has served you so well. Devoid of ash, two small logs rest among uneven chunks of kindling; at its side, an empty wood rack.

That they couldn’t even bother to keep your chamber properly stocked while you were away -

You blink, stalling growing hostility.   _That_ anger - that infernal, foreign anger; ‘tis an anger equally familiar and unstoppable, an anger that releases the foulest darkness residing in your heart.

Yet, ‘tis all that remains of clarity, an emotion yours and yours alone, and you’re not wont to let it slip from your grasp again.

As easily as breathing, flames rise from wood at your command, the ferocity of their birth all but exploding the tinder at your feet. From each peak, wisps of black shadow rise; darker than the darkest smoke, their tendrils claim the deepest corners of the room as if they’ve a will of their own.

Heart pounding almost in time with the flame’s crackle, you step back from a fire that gives off no heat, wary of its comforts.  A cold fire of red and black flame; you’ve not encountered the like since -

_Lahabrea._

The name curiously perks your attention, like a call from the far side of a bustling tavern;  
Like a distant summons at the edge of your senses;  
Like the command of a greater force.

_Lahabrea._

With the name comes fragments of memory:

A command -  
A promise on an icy breeze -  
A whisper in the night -  
A curse -  
A warning -

It’s not a bad name; it bears histories, as with any other.

_Lahabrea._

_How long has it been. . .?_

The pieces fall into place, like shards of broken auracite; imperfectly and jaggedly they fit, but undeniably a whole.

Impossible - you saw him.  
_You felt it._  
You heard him.  
_You’d screamed until you’d no more voice, even though ‘twas naught more than an instant._  
_Barred in a prison of death, experiencing terror unlike aught you’ve known -_  
Holding strong no matter how agonizing his screams -  
_The abhorrent, searing light -_  
-white fragments falling to the ground like snow, tinged with wisps of shadow.

_Lahabrea!_

A shrill shriek of mind and body, foreign and barely comprehensible behind harsh, rapid breaths.

“Are you here, _Ascian_?!”  A futile hysteria; he would already know your thoughts, but to speak feels solid - real.

The black flames blur before rapidly moistening eyes; chest heaving, a dizzying maelstrom of shadow swirls until ‘tis unclear if ‘tis true or simply a product of your broken mind.

“Are you done amusing yourself?”  Your stomach heaves, threatening to spill its contents onto the floor.

Lahabrea offers naught but infuriating silence.

Each broken cry swells your throat, each word harder than the last, each breath a bubble exploding from your lungs that sends tremors coursing to every extremity.

You’ve no more strength for his games; surely he knows this. Unable to bear your weight any longer, you collapse, a willing sacrifice beside the black pyre.

“You’ve succeeded - come, take my flesh, I’ll not resist!”

Again and again, nothingness, the only sound filling the tiny chambers remains the crackle inside the hearth and the ragged breaths brought upon by your retches.

As if despairing at your side, shadowy tendrils of darkness still their chaotic flow, returning to soothe the fire’s licks, dancing at your fingertips before melting into the flames.

His flames.  
_Your flames._

Nay - you’ll receive no answer.

_A fool’s charade._

Standing at full height, you laugh humorlessly. You’re not one for denial.

At your call, the black fire rises to meet your fingers.

It’s only ever been you.

At last the darkness escapes its fiery confinement, wisps of shadow swirling at your breast.

There is no shadowy possessor.  
‘Twas you alone who reacted to _that_ name.  
An abhorrent name. An accursed name.  
_Your_ name.


	23. Fading Remnants of a Dream

_Flap, flap._

Relentlessly, a chittering beast continues its pursuit, leathery wingbeats echoing through labyrinthine and nigh identical passages to which there is no exit.

The cavern’s maw opens before you, a boundary of endless width and depth. At bare feet a daunting lake laps, its black waters soothing wounds born from fleeing over sharp, uneven crystalline; a stillness born of chaos’ end, the only disruption of the lake’s dark sheen is the rare drip from stalactites and steady ripples birthed of your uneasy paces at its edge.

Were it not for a persistent irritant, ‘twould be picturesque serenity.

_Flap, flap, flap._

In time with the flaps, your heart pounds, unstable, panic-driven gasps barely gifting succor to burning muscles.

If there’s no escape from the cavern save towards the predator, mayhaps. . .

The depths grumble at your feet, promising salvation just below the lake’s shadowy surface.

_Flap, flap, flap flap._

Nearer and nearer the voidbeast draws, navigating the twisting labyrinth as easily as it might a clear sky, its powerful wings cleansing stale air.  Its prey at last within its sights and barred from escape, the beast cries its victory, all but dancing through the winds in leisurely approach, sinking lower and lower, so that its claws might more easily access flesh and aether.

 _Flap_ -

Again the maw at your feet groans its summons, licking at your toes; risking a brief glance, its surface remains still and unchanged.

In darkness, the promise of safety; in the crystal’s light, a howling predator.

The beast readies its assault and ‘tis no choice at all.

With a tentative step, you breach the lake’s thick, syrupy surface.

_Thump, thump._

Sticky like tar, the fluid impedes your steps like a snowpile half and again your height.  The waters neither reject nor gift promised safety; you are naught but a disruption, alien until proven otherwise.

At your face, wings blow your hair back; at your feet, the leviathan stirs, waters rising from your ankles to your knees.  Groaning waves splash against your chest, droplets landing upon your cheeks, an unnatural indomitability testing the measure of its reach.

You might well be less than the tiniest vilekin when compared to such immense power, yet still it seeks you specifically for its summons. You must needs -

Again the depths rumble, questioning your hesitation, demanding your acquiescence - commanding you partake.

 _What? - How? - Why?_ The orders are equally senseless and coherent. You’ve a role; you must -

The thought slips from your grasp, foundational memories once again elusive, leaving naught but remnants emphasizing imperative obedience.

As if satisfied by the conclusion the soul in its grasp has reached, the shadow makes its choice.  A thin misty film rises independently from the waves, enveloping your extremities; though it does not solidify, the foreign presence proves strangely, protectively familiar.  You’ve no more to fear from the voidsent with this presence at your side.

The waves still as the water level drops; lower and lower still it falls, revealing deep crystalline purple once hidden at your feet.  Freed from the slogging barrier, you at last face your foe with confidence.

In an uneven semicircle around you and your foe, the tides stop; in and out they tease, hints of anticipation present in flowing walls. Barrier growing by the second, the far ends of the cavern are quickly obscured by rising black waters

Nay, not rising.  It _falls,_ shadowy cascades crashing onto the roof as if the world itself has flipped upon its head, droplets of water streaming onto your face; so much water the lake holds that even rare splashes are drenching, leaving uneven trails rapidly coursing down your cheeks and neck.

Recognizing the situation has become unfavorable, the voidsent backs away from the rising tide and its summoner, but ‘tis too late. The barrier is breached, the gate opened.

Past the edge of your sight to unknown heights flows the wall, its groan becoming a roar as the seemingly infinite waters rise until at last they can coalesce no more. As with your entry to the cavern, placid stillness overtakes the waters; with bated breath, your gaze roams to the caverntop, the shadowy lake an impossibly large cloud above you.

The darkness falls with naught but a rumble of warning, tendrils of blackness all but leaping ahead of the distant waters, anticipating and enacting your will with violent eagerness. With a satisfying splat, the voidsent wails, pierced by foreign power. Locked within shadow's grasp, it writhes in desperation, each cry urging the the tendrils to pierce more deeply and encircle more tightly.

The darkness roars in satisfaction at its newfound freedom, drowning out voidsent shrieks of terror, and you can but smile as the full weight of the lake crashes down upon you.

With a start you awaken, sticky and smothered, though the air is chill and the furs are long since pushed away.  Heart pounding - be it from fear or excitement - your gaze darts around the room, but unpleasant truths immediately draw you back against the wall, clenching your teeth.

All is as you left it, save the presence of the weakest imp, small and fragile, not unlike the dependent creatures you sometimes permit to follow you about.  The creature flails, shrieking in panic. Writhing in the darkness, its wings clutch at its sides, wails turning to moans as its essence leaks from its container, its flesh torn apart by tendrils of darkness in cruel mimicky of the larger beast in your dream.

Aye, a dream; this time was unlike the previous.  This was no brief flash of twisted, shared memory; the cavern was a location solely of imagination’s creation. ‘Twas naught but a normal dream for the first time in only the Gods know how long.

It might have been relieving, had the rapidly dissipating creature not walked from your fantasies.

-  And had you not just tore it apart as easily as you might a dry autumn leaf.

A brief glance around an all too clear room reveals it to be as empty as ‘twas when you returned; untended, the comforting fire is long since doused, there’s been no intrusion, nor aught that might have hinted at ritual summoning. By all rights, Voidsent presence should be an imposs-

Shearing the thought clean from your mind, a trembling, pulsing wave, concentrated singularly near the fire pit, reveals the answer. The sundering in Hydaelyn’s walls, a temporary tear in the veil near the pit's warmth where you had birthed those dark magicks, ephemeral enough that only the weakest voidsent might take advantage of it, was not present before you fell into slumber.

Nay -  
You’d never - not willingly -

So easily they rose on your fingertips, shadows dancing barely under your control.  In your instability, the possibility is undeniable that you are at fault for the rift’s creation - and might well repeat such a mistake.  The next time it happens, the creature summoned might not be so harmless.

You daren’t consider further implications of your weakness.

With such an unconfined ailment, until you can command this curse - until you can control _yourself_ \- you must needs minimize collateral damage from any accidental summons, remaining where the inhabitants can banish voidsent and darkness is kept at bay.

‘Tis no dilemma at all; you’d sooner not endanger your friends, no matter how few continue calling themselves that, but there are none better to deal with such a threat.

_Threat._

A trait you’d never thought would be necessary to assign yourself.

Lifting stifling armors, you hesitate.  If necessity demands words be put to your predicament, you’d sooner not do so full armed and armored. In effort to minimize unpleasant assumptions, you pull lighter garments from your sack and replace the armor, scanning the room quickly for any remaining effects and unlatching the door.

The residence is as empty as when you entered, your presence naught but the hints of a shadow.

Comforting in their familiarity, the words of teleportation fall from your lips, drawing you from the darkness of Dragonhead to the indigo of Mor Dhona’s morning light.

Hardly a moment after your entry into the Rising Stones, familiarity registers faintly at the edge of your awareness, condemning the formal greetings of sparse Domans to deaf ears as you strain to make sense of the placid essence in Minfilia’s solar. Illogically attracting like a faint scent on the air, _he_ solidifies at the back of your senses.  Yet however calming, however faint, he rouses none of the earlier peace; leaving you answerless even as he knows full well what you’ve become, his is not a presence you are full keen on welcoming once more.

Only _now_ does he conveniently reappear, bearing answers. There can be no other reason for his timely arrival; aye, you’ll have your answers - and he’ll regret having kept them from you for so long.

Newfound purpose tempered by rage, you stride past Tataru’s unstaffed desk, pushing into the solar with far more force than is necessary.

Stillness and silence greet you, a brief gust of wind playing at the hem of the unexpectedly lone occupant’s robes. “Unukalhai. . .?”

Your abrupt entrance earns a shocked gasp, the tome in which said boy had been engrossed tumbling from limp fingers onto the floor with a _thump_.  “Y-yes?”

 _He_ was ne’er in the Stones, ‘twas only ever Unukalhai, with a presence so very much like -

Naught but a faint echo, a mark borne on his soul since his uplifting, Unukalhai’s previously unseen nature reveals itself through knowledge that by all rights you should not have. His attire and evasive speech arouse suspicion, of course, but the boy had made no other attempt to conceal himself, truth plain to anyone with the knowledge.

So easily recognizable for what he is, surely Unukalhai observes similar curses rousing within you.

Unukalhai breaks awkward silence with a small-voiced greeting, taken aback by your sudden arrival. “Good day.”

The tumult of emotion withers; he is naught but a boy, faultless of his master’s evasions. Nay, contrarily, he is uniquely positioned to lend you his aid.  “I must speak with your master. Immediately.”

Contrasting Unukalhai’s earlier preparations, easily shrugging off probing questions and demands regarding his affiliations, his confidence falters. “H-he does not wish -”

“- to reveal himself, yes.” Dismissing rehearsed evasions, you push, needing only to convince him to aid in initial contact.  “You’ll find he is expecting me.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other and nervously wringing his hands, Unukalhai endures your unwavering presence to the best of his ability. Fidgety silence speaks more of his assignment than words, the very nature of his mission seemingly at stake only from the simplest knowledge.

Remaining unyielding even when facing your anger, ‘tis clear the strength of Unukalhai’s will; Elidibus chose well. With a sigh, your command softens to a request in hopes of easing the boy’s discomfort. “You needn’t fear, I’ve no intention of abandoning our shared duty; the Triad will yet fall, but ‘tis imperative that I speak with him. If he declines, so be it, but I’m certain he will not.” Clear even behind his downtilted mask, the hitch in his breath reveals growing hesitation; he’ll soon be unable to resist your request, you need but a final push.

“I _need_ this.”

Unukalhai releases a defeated breath.  “As you wish. He may not be available immediately, but I will ask.” A brief assault of irritation is easily dismissed, paradoxically comforting in its familiarity. How very like the Emissary to heed summons solely on his terms.

Foreign though it might be, the knowledge is not fully unwelcome.

A heavy silence descends, Unukalhai continuing to idly pick at his gloves, twisting his fingers before at last reaching down to pick up his forgotten tome, holding it to his chest; ne’er before have you caused him such deep discomfort.

You cannot but hope that this request does not break diligently built, if tenuous, respect.

With cautious strides, he approaches.  “What has happened to you? You are. . .unstable.” Barely audible, his voice bespeaks a concern as genuine and thorough as you’ve ever heard.  Near enough to touch, he hesitantly raises his free hand, nigh ready to reach out, but thinks immediately better of it, withdrawing an extra pace towards the door.

“Is it so obvious?”

“The aether that makes up your essence is in conflict. I can sense it - as will your friends with their tools.  It would be best to take care to avoid the Scions until your situation improves.”  Formal bow tainted by his dire warning, Unukalhai whispers low, as if uncertain he wishes for you to hear.  “I know it will. If anyone can. . .”

Breath you’d not known you were holding leaves your chest alongside his exit, knowing full well the truth of dire warning.

No matter what happens, they cannot know.

 

* * *

 

_Crunch._

A morning mist after rain; a milky grey blotting out the rising sun on the far horizon.  

_Crunch._

Above light footsteps, the muted chirps of hunting birds in the distance break blessed silence.

Such is your ledge, a damp, wet, and peaceful perch, the Hinterlands spanning nigh endlessly at your feet.

They’ll not see you here.

Delicate and light, the linkpearl rests in your palm, impatient voices audible even from a distance.   Theirs was a hasty message, urgent and persistent, just like back then, back before -

There need not be such pessimism; if all goes well, you’ll soon have your answers and such dire fantasties will recede into the forgotten past.

The titan further rises from Her bowels, they claim, and you see the truth of it.  Another arm lifts from the lake, even the simplest motion draining the Hinterlands of its ambient aether enough to prevent further rising.

A rise followed by stillness and silence, resting until it might awaken yet further. The draining  recurrences might persist over millennia, if untouched. Such is the nature of this grand, cyclical creation. With raised hand, you reach out; mayhap some assistance is in order -

An erratic stumble forcefully subdues abhorrent thoughts; no matter how right they might seem - and how desperately you wish to heed them - they must ne’er be acted upon.  Daily though the affliction deepens, with progress comes awareness of its continued presence; there is yet hope that you might regain control.

 _Which_ you, the nagging whisper at the back of your mind taunts, and you push it away, choosing instead to return your attention to your friends.

Their fussing has stopped; with Mide’s arrival they’ve seemingly chosen to act without you. Y’shtola prepares to aid Mide as well, though she seems distracted, her sightless gaze locked upon something unseen in the distance, almost as if -

As if she watches you.

_Impossible._

Unukalhai’s soft voice calls from your memory, dispelling remaining hopes; Y’shtola, with her unique talent, will be able to tell.  If you approach, she will recognize the changes - recognize _him._

_You._

_If you go down there, how long will your resistance last?  
_

You can’t -  
You _won’t_ put them in any danger.

A decision, a solution to a question you knew not you had.  Your hand closes around the buzzing linkpearl.

These are not risks you’ll allow.

Again you raise your arm, opening your fist and releasing its contents into the water below.

It’s better this way. A more suitable arrangement, for all parties.

Refusing further hesitation, you turn from the ledge, disappearing into the mists.


	24. Truth

Mayhaps, in the distant sea, a storm rages.

On occasion, a wave larger than the others crashes into Vesper Bay’s quay, interrupting blessed stillness with brief sprays of salty water and drowning out the otherwise disruptive pound of your slow, deliberate footfall. 

So deeply into the night, even the most drunken tavern revelers are long since returned to their dwellings, stumbling into dreamless stupors. Temptation whispers of brief indulgence in similar respite, wallowing in darkness under the moonlit sky, but necessity allows you no such pleasure.

Hesitantly slipping out of the breeze and into the unlit sandstone entryway that once served as Tataru’s station, a glance at your side confirms Unukalhai’s diligence; a consistent shadow keeping pace at a step behind, he closes and latches the door with a gentle click.

Unukalhai’s assurances of Urianger’s absence prove accurate; through fortune, fate, or some other contrivance, you’ll have the Sands to yourselves. Yet without its remaining inhabitants, the building contains naught but cold, unwelcoming darkness.

For so long this place had been like home that steps down the familiar, isolated staircase come easily, even in the lowest light.  Unukalhai has no such experience, fiddling about in spare boxes until at last the room is illuminated in golden by wavering candlelight.

The door yields easily, strangely unwarded, both silence and shadow settling absolutely within. 

It hasn’t been this quiet here since. . .

_Gunshots rang out and fell silent, each body fallen where it stood like a puppet with cut strings, blood pooling, seeping into the carpets -_

_It remains, settling deep in the fabric, even now._

A faltering shudder returns your attention to the present and you clear your throat; ‘tis not the time for displays of vulnerability. “Shall we use the old solar?”

“Aye.” His voice carries uncommon tenseness, speaking as you proceed across thick, muffling, _stained_ carpets. “You are familiar with the tale of this star and its reflections, I am told?”

Such a strange topic to breach, on this of all nights; you offer a brief sound of affirmation, willing him to continue.

“I was born of a different star - perhaps the reflection you are most familiar with. I awakened to the Echo as a child, but without Her Blessing, there was naught I could do to save my dying world.” He stills outside the solar, candlelight motionless in the stagnant air. “Nevertheless, I _tried_. And I failed.”

Even through his concealment, a brief crack in his voice reveals the depths of Unukalhai’s emotions.

“As I lay broken and defeated. . .I was saved. I was offered a chance to prevent the tragedy of the Void from reoccurring. When I agreed, my new master safeguarded my soul within the Rift and taught me of the failure of balance that doomed us.”

Quickly brushing aside an irrational flare of irritation, you deny his evasive dance so that you might continue to the meeting. “And Elidibus deemed the Triad enough of a ‘failure of balance’ to send you?”

Unukalhai immediately grasps your intent; he’s well past needing to hide his master’s identity.  “Yes. He could not help you directly; Hydaelyn's champions would never have trusted him. Please understand.”

So there is some point to his tale after all, his insecurity an understandable burden; nonetheless, growing impatience refuses to be doused and no matter the weight of Unukalhai’s history, you must needs move forward. If naught else, that is within your power.  You gesture toward the door.

With a loud exhale, sharing your eagerness to clear looming anxieties, Unukalhai enters the solar your side.

Empty and black, the solar is heavy with shades of memories; Unukalhai does not share your lamentation, the weight of the chamber lost upon him.  How convenient that ‘twas here Elidibus first made contact with the Scions - where you first -

No.

-That’s not right, but the truth continues its frustrating evasions, teasing wisps refusing solidify into memory.

Small comfort though it might be, there is relief in the knowledge that you do not suffer progressive madness and that veiled memories truly, stubbornly exist, piercing the shroud of your essence, all the while consistently refusing to heed any summons.

And you are come to tame them.

The clench of your fists is visible enough in the flickering light that it provokes a concerned, if easily dismissed, whisper from your companion.  Now resting on the abandoned desk, the candlelight’s inconsistent licks reveal any internal struggles that you’d sooner not share with one of the few remaining individuals to yet respect you.  You cannot but hope the rapid shake of your head is enough to temporarily dissuade him. 

At the depths of your mind, a distracting twinge instinctively summons your focus; like a prey animal alert to a twig’s snap in the forest, your heart beats, attentions drawn to a _change_.

A tear, where dark becomes Dark and shadow births Shadow.

You’d caution when sensing this once, but now -

_Now-_

Aught else but amusement at Elidibus arriving only when he chooses seems utterly nonsensical. His is a welcome, if trying, familiarity, in these most tenuous of times.

 _That_ memory, if naught else, proves reliable; the veil ripples and folds, intrusive essence bleeding like a wound from the gaping hole. Open only long enough for his passage, it quickly reforms, soothing away the flawed creation and leaving Her barrier smooth and untouched. 

Even at your back, Elidibus’ visage is clear in your mind’s eye: white-clad, deeply held pride beneath a facade of placidity; on his lips, doubtless, the faintest traces of a smile.

Turning to him, there is some brimming satisfaction in expectation becoming truth; the flickering glow of candlelight reflects off pale robes, purple adornment so different from the others, and _those_ lips with _that_ smirk, no darkness to conceal his satisfaction at your open acknowledgement.

Such is the enigma awaiting acknowledgement.

He greets with a long, silent appraisal, doubtless weighing the changes within you - and the necessity of promised truths.

 _You should not trust him,_ rationality rears itself from the back of your mind.  
_He’s no threat,_ _I am yet of use to him_ counters whispers from the darkest recesses, that, notably, do not disagree.

You need Elidibus, no matter his intentions, and ‘tis absurd to regret the summons when you’ve no viable alternative.

The light patter of Unukalhai’s footfall and his tense voice breaks anticipatory silence.  “I will go and allow you to discuss -”

“Stay a moment. This concerns you as well.”

“Yes, master.”  From willful and distant to submissive and dutiful, the servant reveals his nature only before the master.

Elidibus directs a calm voice to the rigid Unukalhai, urging relaxation gently without demanding it directly. “Did you share your tale as I asked?”

“Briefly.” Even with - or perhaps because of - Elidibus’ soothing, Unukalhai’s uncertainty reveals itself.

“The conditions of your world’s fall?”

Unukalhai shakes his head and Elidibus silently commands he continue. The stoic boy, normally reserved but ne’er before hesitant, only tentatively sees to his master’s wish, reciting his tale stiffly, as if reading from a tome.  “In their desperate battle to fight off our star’s Ascian, our Warriors of Light turned to a weapon called auracite which allowed them to trap and harness the power of primals. The primals’ essences, however, leaked from their imperfect containers and corrupted the auracite wielders. They became the same monstrous, aether-hungry fiends the primals had been. ‘Twas their ravenous consumption that brought the darkness.”

A servant is ever the tool of the master, and at last Elidibus reveals his promised hand: Unukalhai. He needs naught else.

Silence lingers and looms, blanketing the Sands like the muffle during a heavy snowfall such that breaths are deafening in your ears.  The unknown dangers of auracite settle heavily in your stomach, tale ringing far too truly for comfort; a convenient tool, but corrupting when used without restraint, eternally tainting the wielder.  Seconds tick by, marked only by your heart’s fluttery beats, until at long last your tongue heeds you. “Is there more you can tell me of auracite?”

For the first time this night, Elidibus addresses you directly and with a pity that promises to cast you out on a maelstrom of emotion. “You would know better than us, midst its transformation as you are. Though ‘twas no primal captured that day.”

All Ascian knowledge comes with cost and Elidibus’ is no different.

Fragments fit together in a sequential chain, final truths completing the broken puzzle of your existence.

Auracite -  
A corruption that destroyed a star -  
The contradictory memory of death at your own hands -  
Of suffering beyond agony.

Trembles course your flesh in a violent shudder; the barest hints of the agonizing dream send your stomach twisting and knotting, overfilled with nervous vilekin flapping about, eager for escape.

Try as you might, the tremors refuse to subside, painful in intensity and frequency. From the corner of your eye, barely recognizable midst your writhing,  Unukalhai’s posture sinks and he averts his gaze, his master’s clawed glove falling heavy onto his shoulder in comfort.

Through unspoken command or simple understanding, Unukalhai pushes past you and Elidibus, excusing himself; keeping his gaze locked on the floor, ‘tis uncertain whether the muffled apology under his breath after a stilted ‘farewell’ is reality or desperate fantasy.

He closes the door lightly behind him, the _click_ of its handle painfully sharp.  Refusing to permit Elidibus the satisfaction of witnessing your growing tumult of emotions, you keep your back to him, focusing on each detail of the aged wooden exit.

“I never -” Uncharacteristically halting, words fail you. “- ‘twas destroyed, ne’er wielded in that. . .”

“How the auracite was wielded is a pointless distinction when ‘tis unclear from moment to moment whether you are Lahabrea or instead his greatest foe.”

With Unukalhai’s absence, Elidibus has no more need for pretense; underlying his gentle demeanor is a firmness that brooks no protests.

“You know I speak the truth.” Despite his placidity, you nigh instinctively contradict him, but quickly think better of it.   _This_ is the truth you summoned Elidibus for and you would be fool to deny him.

After all, he only confirms that which you know.

“Can it be cleansed?” Low and nigh unrecognizable, yours is a despairingly plea for fragments of hope you’ve yet to grasp.

Irreparably twisted in mind and flesh, tainted by feelings both foreign and not, eternally suffering madness in truth -

Elidibus’ hesitation, notable in both rarity and length, speaks more than words, overcoming otherwise chill aloofness. “I know not.”

A glance down at bare hands is clear reminder of the loathsome being you’ve become. Overcome by self-hatred, Elidibus’ untouchable serenity at your back is further evidence of your failures and the vehemence in which you despise your frail body births tremors anew. Coursing from your breast to your toes, seething rage bleeds your vision from black to red, fists clenching tightly enough that small, raw crescent moons form in bare flesh. With no proper outlet, self-destructive anger is directed inward until your lungs burn. You are _ruined_ -

Firm and steadying, a hand grasps your shoulder, immediately stalling your pitiful tantrum and returning your senses to the present. A simple, distant comfort, Elidibus soothes you as he did Unukalhai: a calming, unyielding strength that stills the venom swirling in your veins and returns your vision to shadow and the caress of candlelight.

Control regained at last, you turn back to the Emissary; he’s naught but a pace away, pacifying discontent and anchoring you to the present with his familiar, commanding essence.

“How deeply you loathe your circumstance.” Elidibus’ solemn, pitiless observation strikes true;  if ‘twas within your ability to subdue this appalling disconnect through will alone, you’d long since have succeeded. “There may yet be ways to quell the conflict within you, that you might properly mend.”

Frustratingly vague, from a man who soothes your turmoil through presence alone.  “You were able to help me before - in Falcon’s Nest.  Why not again?”

With hesitation of length that can no longer be described as brief, Elidibus calculates, weighing the path that must needs be taken.  “This is not the place.” He takes a single step towards you, the pale, unknown metals on his vestments burning golden in the dying light as he offers a hand. “Allow me to show you something.”

This must have been Elidibus’ plan from the start: a private discussion, on his terms, in a place of his choosing. With Unukalhai’s leave, locale is your sole remaining advantage.

His cost is revealed, but without his knowledge, you’ve no path at all.

Small and reluctant, you nod, acquiescing to Elidibus’ will. Ignoring the niggles of doubt twisting in the back of your mind, you accept his hand and his terms, the familiar swirl of _Elidibus_ fully within your awkward grasp.

So rare, it must be, that you prove so agreeable, for the tug of satisfaction at the Emissary’s lips seems almost beyond his control.

His smile is an intriguing curiosity, concealing secrets both fair and foul.  Does he seek Lahabrea - or the Warrior of Light? What is to be your final fate?

There’s no turning back.

Again the irritating prickle rises, and with its arrival, darkness swirls, blowing out fragile flame before swallowing the room’s sole occupants.


End file.
